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4-Y/7 


* 


THE WHITE FLAG 


BOOKS BY 

GENE STRATTON-PORTER 


Nature 

The Song of the Cardinal 
Homing With the Birds 
Birds of the Bible 
Music of the Wild 
Friends in Feathers 
Moths of the Limberlost 
Morning Face 

Novels 

Freckles 

At the Foot of the Rainbow 
A Girl of the Limberlost 
The Harvester 
Laddie 

Michael O’Halloran 
A Daughter of the Land 
Her Father’s Daughter 
The White Flag 

Poetry 

The Fire Bird 






* 















4 




What does my heart know of the heart of a child beating beneath it? 

























T2a 
,Ts3“ 1 

14 . 

t"^ v 


*» 3 




COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 

GENE STRATTON-PORTER 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATE# 

AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRE8S, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 


First Edition 


TO 

THE BOYS AND GIRLS “ GROWN TALL” 

WITH WHOM, IN CHILDHOOD, 

I PASSED UNDER 
THE WHITE FLAG 


S. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. “He That Was Cold and Hungry” . ... i 

II. The Gifts of Light and Song.53 

III. An Inquisition According to Mahlon ... 78 

IV. “Strength from Weakness”.101 

V. The Verdict Goes Against Jezebel . . . no 

VI. The Golden Egg.141 

VII. Field Mice Among the Wheat.161 

VIII. A Secret Among the Stars.180 

IX. Sometimes Your Soul Shows.199 

X. A Trick of the Subconscious.224 

XI. The Driver of the Chariot.248 

XII. Those Who Serve.283 

XIII. Only Three Words. 303 

XIV. The Cloud That Grew.324 














CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 


The Last Straw. 

The Eyes of Elizabeth. 

“A Millstone and the Human Heart” . 

A Triumph in Millinery. 

Rebecca Pronounces Judgment . 

The Decision Marcia Reached . 

“Whatsoever a Man Sows”. 

Behind the Lilac Wall. 

The Flag on Its Journey. 


PAGE 

34 6 

375 

387 

410 

417 

438 

449 

460 

478 





LIST OF CHARACTERS 


Mahala Spellman, the Model Child 

Mahlon Spellman, the Dry-goods Merchant 

Elizabeth Spellman, a Fine Lady 

Martin Moreland, the Harvester of Riches 

Mrs. Martin Moreland, a Bewildered Wife 

Martin Moreland, Junior, a Chip from the Paternal Block 

Becky Sampson, Bearer of the White Flag 

Edith Williams, the Child of Discontent 

Marcia Peters, the Bearer of Chains 

Jason Peters, Walking the Road 

Mehitable Ashcroft, Teacher of Room Five 

Peter Potter, the Village Grocer 

Ellen Ford, a Wild Rose 

Jemima Davis, a Friend in Need 

Nancy Bodkin, Who Believed in Face Values 

Remainder of characters: School children, villagers, a minister, 
a doctor, a lawyer, etc. 


THE WHITE FLAG 





THE WHITE FLAG 


CHAPTER I 

“He That Was Cold and Hungry” 

E LIZABETH SPELLMAN opened her eyes, turned 
on her pillow, and minutely studied the face of 
her sleeping husband. To her, Mahlon Spellman 
was not a vain, pompous, erratic little man of fifty. When 
she looked at him she saw the man who had courted her, 
of whose moral and mental attainments she had been so 
sure. She had visioned him as a future deacon of the 
Methodist Church, a prominent member of the School 
Board and the city council, and her vision had material¬ 
ized; reality had been better than the Dream. He was 
Chairman of the County Republican Committee, fre¬ 
quently a delegate to state conventions, the Methodist 
Sunday School Superintendent, the richest dry-goods mer¬ 
chant of the town. As she studied his features that par¬ 
ticular September morning, she choked down a rising 
flutter of satisfaction. Mahlon, as he lay there, repre¬ 
sented success, influence, wealth. He slept as fastidi¬ 
ously as he walked abroad; he seemed conscious of his 
dignity and pride even as he lay unconscious. 


2 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Her home, of which she was inordinately proud, was his 
gift to her. The very satisfactory life she was living was 
possible because she was under the shelter of his sufficient 
hands. The child she mothered was the offspring of her 
love for him. She did not know that the elements in him 
which she mentally labelled “neat 5 ’ and “thorough,” were 
denominated “fussy” by his neighbours. She lauded the 
scrupulous cleanliness and precision which kept him con¬ 
stantly flicking invisible dust from his sleeve and straight¬ 
ening his tie. To her this only meant that personally he 
was as scrupulous as she was herself; to her these traits 
never revealed the truth that Mahlon was an egoist, who 
kept himself constantly foremost in his own mind, a man 
selfish to a degree that would have been unendurable had 
not his selfishness encompassed his pride in her, their child, 
and their home as the fulfilment of one branch of his 
personality. His craze for power she denominated lauda¬ 
ble ambition. The position in which he was able to place 
her socially, she accepted as her due; she spent her days 
prettifying her really beautiful home, doing everything 
in her power to pamper Mahlon physically, to uphold 
and further his ambitions, because she was comfortably 
certain that there was no eminence to which she could 
boost him that she might not share in proud security with 
him. Among the demands of society, her position as a 
Colonial Dame, a pillar of the Church, leader of social 
activities, charities, and the excruciating exactions she 
bestowed upon the office of motherhood, she was a busy 
person. 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 


3 


At that minute she sighed with satisfaction, thinking of 
her wonderful achievement in marrying Mahlon Spellman; 
but with the thought came the memory of the duties that 
such a marvellous alliance entailed. At the present minute 
it was her duty to slip from their bed so quietly that 
Mahlon, the bread winner, the bearer of large gifts, the 
roof of the house, might have a few minutes more sleep. 
She slipped her feet into her bedroom shoes, tiptoed to 
the closet, and gathering up her clothing, stole softly 
to her one of the three bathrooms of the town, where, with 
exacting care, she made her toilet for the morning, aided 
by the magnificence of a tin tub and a marble bowl that 
absorbed stains with disconcerting ease. 

She glanced from the window to watch the small town 
of Ashwater waking to the dawn of the first Monday 
of September. It lay among the hills and valleys of 
rolling country. A river wound around it following a 
leisurely course toward the sea. Ashwater was one of 
the oldest towns of the state, peopled by self-respecting 
merchants, professional men who took time to follow the 
ramifications of their business in a deliberate manner, and 
retired farmers who were enjoying, in late life, the luxury 
of being in close touch with social, political, and religious 
activities. 

It was early morning. The sun was slanting across the 
hills, showing the country brilliant in autumnal foliage. 
A blood-red maple lifted like a flame in her line of vision, 
and close to it was the tapestry of buckeye and the rich 
brown of oak. The big white colonial house in which she, 


THE WHITE FLAG 


4 

the wife of the wealthy dry-goods merchant, lived, was 
surrounded with gorgeous colour from every shrub, bush, 
and tree that would endure the rigours of winter. She 
looked approvingly on the white picket fence that shut off 
her small world from the worlds of her less fortunate 
neighbours. She approved of the screening evergreens 
that made homing places for the birds, and the gorgeous 
beds of chrysanthemums brocading the smooth turf of 
the lawn. Her view from the bathroom window was re¬ 
stricted, but mentally she envisaged her surroundings and 
knew that they made a picture which would indicate to 
any passer-by that here was a home of wealth and comfort. 
She was certain that any one going by would think it a 
home of happiness. 

She stood a minute before the mirror, studying her 
pretty little face. She was nearly twenty years younger 
than her husband, an exacting woman, perfectly capable 
of muttering “prunes and prisms” by the hour for the 
shaping of her mouth as she moved about her occupation 
of being her husband's wife, her daughter’s mother, her 
own social Influence. Elizabeth Spellman believed in 
Influence. It was her duty to set a shining example. 
She had no vision of a modest candle—when she let her 
light “so shine” she meant it to be a headlight, and 
of no mean proportions at that. As she patted her hair 
in place, set the bow at her throat with exact precision, 
she smiled with pleasure over the picture her mirror held 
facing her. But Elizabeth Spellman was a woman who 
firmly held duty above pleasure, or rather, who found her 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 


5 

greatest pleasure in her personal conception of her duty; 
so she turned from the mirror, gathered up her belongings, 
and leaving everything in place, went hurriedly down the 
hall. She softly opened a white door and her eyes in¬ 
stantly sought a small bed, standing in a room made dainty 
with pale pinks and blues. She hurried to the bed, and 
bending, laid her hand upon the little girl sleeping there. 

“Mahala,” she said softly, “you must wake up now, 
dear. It’s the first day of school, you know, and you 
mustn’t spoil a year, that I hope will be extremely beneficial 
to you, by being late. And certainly you must not slight 
your other duties in order to be on time.” 

Elizabeth Spellman said this because she was the kind 
of woman who would say exactly this without the slightest 
regard as to whether her little daughter were sufficiently 
awake either to hear or to understand it. She said it in 
order to give herself the satisfaction of knowing that in 
case Mahala did hear any part of it she would have got 
the right impression. She believed in impressions quite 
as firmly as she believed in influence—possibly even more 
strongly—for if one did not make a good impression, she 
would lose her influence, or, fatal thing! have none to lose. 
Elizabeth Spellman was a firm believer in the fact that, 
if the twig is bent in the proper direction, the tree will be 
inclined in the right manner. 

Mahala opened her eyes and looked at her mother. 
Then she shut them and tried to decide how long she might 
lie still before she made a move to get up. She discovered 
that there was no time to waste that morning. A firm 


6 


THE WHITE FLAG 


hand turned back the covers and gripped her shoulder. 
So she mustered a smile, swung her feet to the floor, 
and still half asleep, stumbled down the hall before her 
mother. 

Her bath thoroughly awakened her. She was old 
enough to have been of some help to herself, but helping 
herself with her toilet was not a point stressed by her 
mother, who took particular pride and pleasure in bathing 
the exquisitely shaped little body under her hands. She 
examined the ears particularly. She made sure there 
were no obtrusive “boos” disfiguring the small nose by 
the use of a handkerchief stretched over a hairpin. 
Mahala’s hair curled naturally around her face. Her 
mother assisted the long heavy back hair occasionally. 
She now unwound the golden curls from their papers and 
brushed them into place with exquisite precision. Every 
small undergarment she put upon the child was of fine 
material, hand made, elaborately trimmed. A mirror was 
lifted from the closet and set upon the floor before which 
Mahala had to stand and see that her stocking seams 
were straight in the back. The ruffles of her pantalettes 
were carefully fluffed; her slippers were securely buttoned. 
Her petticoats and her wide-skirted dress were in the 
height of style and of expensive material. The finishing 
touch to her toilet was a white apron having a full skirt, 
and wide shoulder pieces meeting at the band, then curv¬ 
ing to form deep pockets. From an open drawer a hand¬ 
kerchief was taken from a box and carefully scented. 

“Please, Mother, put some on me,” begged Mahala. 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 7 

I 

Elizabeth Spellman laughed softly. She tipped the 
contents of the bottle against the glass stopper which she 
touched in several spots on the golden curls and over the 
shoulders. 

“My little girl likes to be sweet like a flower, doesn't 
she?" she asked. 

And the child answered primly: “Yes, Mama, so that 
Papa will be pleased with me." 

Whereupon her mother immediately kissed her and 
commended her for thinking of anything that would be a 
pleasure to her father. 

As she gathered up Mahala's nightdress and turned the 
bed to air, she said to the child: “Now run, dear, and 
waken your father, but remember you must not muss 
yourself or spend too much time." 

Mahala hurried down the hall, softly opened the door 
to her parents' bedroom, and poised on her tiptoes. Her 
heart was racing. Her eyes were big pools having dancing 
lights. Her muscles cried for exercise. She wanted to 
make a flying leap and land on the bed, but she knew what 
her reception would be if she did; so she crossed the room 
very primly apd laid a soft hand on her father's face. 

“Papa, dear," she said, “wake up! School begins this 
morning and you won't be in time to have breakfast with 
me unless you hurry." 

She leaned over and kissed him and patted his face, but, 
when he reached up and drew her down in his arms, she 
was instantly on the defensive. 

“Papa, be careful!" she cautioned. “Mother has my 


THE WHITE FLAG 


8 

curls made and I am all dressed for school. She wouldn’t 
like it if you were to muss me.” 

Instantly Mahlon’s arms relaxed. 

“No, she wouldn’t like it,” he said, “and neither would 
I. Give Papa another kiss and run to your music, like a 
little lady.” 

So Mahala hurried back to her room, where she took in 
her arms a beautiful wax doll, almost as large as herself, care¬ 
fully carrying it down the stairs and into the living room. 
With her keen eyes she surveyed this familiar place, but 
the same stiffly starched lace curtains depended from the 
fringed lambrequins, the same gorgeous flowers spread 
among the scrolls of the Brussels carpet, the same mahog¬ 
any chairs stood, each in its exact spot, each picture cov¬ 
ered its size in the original freshness of the wall paper. 
She could not see a thing to arrest or interest her, so she 
proceeded to the parlour, where the big square piano stood 
among the real treasures of the house: rosewood sofa and 
chairs, a parlour table having leaves, cabinets for books 
and bric-a-brac, a loaded what-not, and the roses of the 
velvet carpet so big and so bright that it was a naughty 
trick of Mahala to pretend she stubbed her toes and 
stumbled over them. Here the lace curtains fell from 
velvet draperies and spread widely on the floor; a china 
dog guarded glass-encased hair flowers on the mantel, 
while the morning-glories climbing up the wall paper must 
have sprung from the same exuberant soil that furnished 
the originals of the carpet roses. 

Mahala swept this room also with a bird-alert glance 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 


9 


and seeing not the change of a fleck of dust anywhere, set 
Belinda on a chair beside the piano stool and surveyed her 
minutely. 

“Belinda, can’t you sit like a little lady?” she said re¬ 
provingly. “Two curls over each shoulder, the rest down 
your back; heels touching, toes out. If I got to wear a 
silk dress every day, let me tell you, I’d swish it properly.” 

She spread the silken skirts, fixed the curls, and placed 
a hymn book in the hands of the doll. Carefully spreading 
her own skirts, she climbed to the piano stool. Hearing 
her mother’s step on the stairs, in a sweet little voice she 
began singing, to her own accompaniment: “I thank thee, 
Father, for the light.” Then she slid from the stool, 
exchanged the hymn book in the doll’s lap for a piece 
of sheet music, and climbing back, began practising her 
lesson. She worked with one eye on the door of the living 
room and the other on the keyboard. Every time her 
mother’s back was turned, she stuck her feet straight out, 
and with propulsion attained by setting her hands against 
the piano, whirled in a circle on the stool, first to the left 
until the stool was too low, and then to the right until the 
stool was the required height. She was so dexterous at 
this that she could accomplish one revolution between the 
measures of the music in places where a rest occurred. 
Her face was sparkling with suppressed laughter whenever 
she feelingly struck a chord and then accomplished a 
revolution before catching the next note and continuing 
her exercise. But she was quite serious, seemingly intent 
upon her work, when her mother stepped to the door to 


IO 


THE WHITE FLAG 


announce: “Your time is up, Mahala. You have still a 
few minutes remaining that you might profitably spend 
with your needle.” 

Mahala slipped to the floor, put away her music and 
Belinda’s, and going to the living room, took from a cup¬ 
board a small sewing basket. She sat down in a rocking 
chair beside the window, placing the doll in a chair near 
her. She put a piece of sewing into her hands and gravely 
reproved her for careless work. Her own fingers were 
weaving a needle in and out, executing a design in cross 
stitch in gaudy colours on a piece of cardboard. When 
her mother was within hearing she leaned toward the doll 
and said solicitously: “Now be careful, my dear child. 
You never will be a perfect lady unless you learn to take 
your stitches evenly. No lady makes a crooked seam.” 

But, when her mother stepped to the adjoining dining 
room, with her brows drawn together she said sternly to 
the doll: “Belinda, if you don’t sit up straight and make 
your stitches even, I’ll slap you to pieces. You needn’t look 
as meek as a mouse. I shall do it for your own good; al¬ 
though, of course, it will hurt me more than it does you.” 

When the breakfast bell rang, Mahala folded her sewing 
neatly, returned to the basket the piece she had given 
Belinda, put the basket where it belonged, and the doll 
on the sofa, and then walked to the dining-room door. 
She held her apron wide at each side and made a low 
formal courtesy to each of her parents exactly as if she had 
not seen them before that morning. 

Primly she said: “Good morning, Papa dear. Good 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” n 

morning, dear Mama. I hope you slept well during the 
night.” 

This drilling Elizabeth Spellman insisted upon because 
she considered it very pretty when there were guests in 
the house. When there were not, she thought it better to 
have it rehearsed in order that it should become habitual. 

When they were seated at the table Mrs. Spellman and 
Mahala bowed their heads while Mr. Spellman addressed 
the Lord in a tone which was meant to contain a shade 
more deference than he would have tried to put into ad¬ 
dressing the President or a Senator. He thanked the Lord 
for the food that was set before them, asked that it might 
be blessed to their good, prayed that all of them might 
execute the duties of the day faithfully, and returned all 
of their thanks for the blessing they were experiencing. 
Then they ate the food for which they had given thanks 
because it was very good food. They had every reason 
to be thankful for such cooking as Jemima Davis had ac¬ 
complished in their kitchen during all the years of their 
wedded life. 

It was just as Mr. Spellman was buttering his fourth 
pancake that the voice of Jemima Davis arose in the re¬ 
gions of the back porch in a shrill shriek. Mahala laid 
down her fork and stared with wide, expectant eyes. Mrs. 
Spellman started to rise from her chair. Mr. Spellman 
pushed back his own chair and looked at his wife. 

“Now, now,” he said admonishingly, “be calm. You 
are familiar with Jemima’s divagations.” 

Another shriek, wilder than the first, broke upon them. 


12 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“I will attend to this myself,” said Mr. Spellman. 

Arising, he vanished in the direction of the kitchen. 
Finding that room empty, he proceeded to the back porch 
and there, at the corner of the house, he saw Jemima tug¬ 
ging at the rear anatomy of Jimmy Price. Jimmy Price 
was the village handy-man. His task that morning was 
to mow the Spellman lawn and trim the grass around the 
trees. Just why he should have been standing on his 
head in the rain barrel was a question Mahlon Spellman 
did not wait to ask until he had upset the barrel and al¬ 
lowed Jimmy the privilege of backing out. When Jimmy 
lifted his drenched tow head and sallow, freckled face, there 
was no need for explanation. In one hand he grasped a 
pair of sheep shears which he used to clip the grass around 
the snowball and lilac bushes. Exactly why or how he 
had lost them in the barrel was not a matter of concern 
to his employer. At the precise minute that Jimmy 
backed from the barrel, soaked and spluttering, Mahlon 
was felicitating himself upon the presence of mind which 
had kept his wife and daughter from witnessing a sight so 
ludicrous. At the same time he realized that he could 
not so easily control the neighbours and the street. Mah¬ 
lon felt like a fool to be seen in proximity to such a ridicu¬ 
lous sight, and he hated feeling like a fool more than 
almost any other calamity that could possibly overtake 
him. In a voice highly touched with exasperation he 
cried: “James Price, is it quite impossible for you to per¬ 
form your work without having some sort of fool accident 
or doing some ludicrous thing every fifteen minutes? Are 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 13 

you a man or a monkey? You don't seem happy unless 
you are making a back-alley spectacle of yourself,”—“and 
me,” Mahlon added in his consciousness. 

Jimmy wiped the muck of the barrel bottom and the 
water from his face, and looked at his employer. 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said humbly. 

“I wonder what for,” muttered Mahlon Spellman, and 
turning, marched back to the dining room where he re¬ 
sumed his place. As Mahlon went, Jimmy squared his 
shoulders, smoothed his dripping hair, set in place a tie he 
was not wearing, and flipped a very real bit of soil from his 
sleeve in Mr. Spellman’s best manner. 

Jemima launched the back porch broom at Jimmy’s head 
and he dodged it expertly. 

“You poor bumpkin, you,” she cried. “Don’t you dare 
be aping the master!” 

“But I was merely following the natural impulses of a 
gentleman,” said Jimmy, as he used the sheep shears to 
flirt slime from his sleeves, while Jemima suddenly re¬ 
treated, but not before Jimmy in deep satisfaction noted 
her heaving shoulders. 

Mrs. Spellman opened her lips and an inquisitive little 
“What-?” escaped therefrom. 

“Nothing of the slightest importance, my dear,” said 
Mr. Spellman, waving his hand to indicate that the matter 
was of such slight moment that it might be carried away 
in the wake of the gesture without consuming any of their 
valuable time for its consideration. 

Mrs. Spellman bowed her head in acceptance of her 




THE WHITE FLAG 


14 

husband’s ultimatum. Mahala distinctly pouted. In 
the back of her small head she knew that her mother would 
leave the breakfast table and go immediately to the kit¬ 
chen for information. She would be sent to school and 
might never learn why Jemima had screamed so whole¬ 
heartedly. It was not fair; but then, Mahala reflected, 
there were few things that were fair where young people 
were concerned. That being the case, she lingered at the 
table, watched her chance, and slipped to the kitchen. 

“Jemima, what made you scream so?” she whispered as 
she watched the doorway behind her. 

Jemima wiped the batter from the pancake spoon with 
expert finger: “That half-wit Jim Price laid the sheep 
shears on the rain barrel,” she said scornfully. “Of course 
they fell in and of course he went in head first when he 
tried to get them out!” 

Mahala clapped her hands over her mouth and danced 
until her curls flew. 

“Careful, honey, careful,” whispered Jemima. 

Instantly Mahala became a demure little maiden again. 
Her glance swept the kitchen as it had the other rooms 
and rested on a basket of clothes standing ready for the 
washerwoman. She backed to the table, asking questions 
of Jemima, snatched up a fine big apple, and with a 
swallow-swift dip, tucked it under the sheet covering the 
basket at the handle, covered to be sure, yet visibly there 
to the experienced eye. 

“Mahala, what are you doing?” asked her mother at 
the door. 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 15 

Mahala’s swift glance took in her nightdress in her 
mother’s hands. She lifted her face to Jemima: “Thank 
you for my good breakfast,” she said. “Allow me. 
Mama!” She took the nightdress from her mother’s 
hands, tucked it under the sheet at the handle opposite 
the apple, and ran after her books. 

“Jemima, did you ever see such a darling, thoughtful 
child?” asked Elizabeth Spellman, and Jemima answered 
whole-heartedly: “I never did! God bless her!” 

Mahala watched the filling of her book satchel with an 
occasional anxious glance toward the kitchen, but nothing 
happened; the apple had not been discovered. With 
the satchel strap over her shoulder and a bottle of ink in 
her hand, accompanied by her mother, Mahala went down 
the front walk. Mrs. Spellman opened the gate for her, 
kissed her good-bye, and stood waiting until she should 
turn to look back and throw a last kiss from the corner, 
the rounding of which carried her from sight. 

All the neighbours were familiar with this proceeding. 
They were familiar with the demure step and studied grace 
with which Mahala turned the corner and threw back 
the kiss; and those whose range of vision covered the 
corner were also familiar with the wild leap for freedom 
with which the child flew down the street, the corner hav¬ 
ing been accomplished with due decorum. She sped up the 
steps of an attractive home, rang the bell and waited for a 
dark, lean little girl of her own age, dressed quite as 
carefully as she, to join her on their way to school. 

The contrast between the children was very marked. 


i6 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Edith Williams was a sallow little creature, badly spoiled 
in the home of the leading hardware merchant whose only 
brother had died and left his child to her uncle’s care. 
She was not attractive. She was full of complaining and 
fault-finding. Her little heart bore a grudge against the 
world because she had not health and strength with which 
to enjoy the money left by her father, which her uncle 
would have allowed her to use had she not been naturally 
of a saving disposition. 

It was a strange thing that children so different should 
have been friends. It is quite possible that their com¬ 
panionship was not due to natural selection, but to the 
fact that they lived near each other, that they con¬ 
stantly met going in the same direction to church, to 
school, and to entertainments, and that they had been 
sent to play together all their lives. This morning they 
kissed, and with their arms locked, started on their way 
to school. 

Two blocks down the street they passed a big brick 
house surrounded by a thick hedge of evergreen trees in¬ 
side a high iron fence having heavy, ornate gates. There 
were a few large trees scattered over the lawn and a few 
flowering bushes, while among them stood cast-iron dogs, 
deer, and lions. This was the home of Martin Moreland, 
the wealthiest man in the county, the president and the 
chief stockholder of the bank, a man whose real-estate 
and financial operations scattered over several adjoining 
counties. 

While Mrs. Spellman had been dressing her little girl 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 


17 

for school, Mrs. Moreland had been trying to accomplish 
the same feat with her only son; but her efforts had 
vastly different results. Junior was a handsome boy of 
eleven, with a good mind. His mother was trying to rear 
him properly. His father was ostensibly trying to do 
the same thing, but in his secret heart he wanted his son 
to be the successor not only to his business but also to his 
methods of doing business. 

Mr. Moreland was a man of forty, tall and slender, 
having a fair complexion, light hair, and a fine, athletic 
figure. His eyes were small, deep-set, and penetrating, a 
baffling pair of eyes with which to deal. They looked 
straight in the face every one with whom he talked and 
reinforced a voice of persuasive import. But no man or 
woman ever had been able to see the depths of the eyes 
of Martin Moreland, and no man or woman ever had 
been perfectly sure that what his persuasive voice said was 
precisely the thing that he meant. 

Mrs. Moreland was five years older than her husband, 
and it was understood in the town that he had married 
her because of her large inheritance from her father. She 
tried to be a good wife, a good mother, neighbour, and 
friend. She tried with all her might to love and to believe 
in her husband, and yet almost every day she noted some 
tendency in him that bred in her heart a vague fear and 
uncertainty, and years of this had made the big, raw- 
boned, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman into a creature of 
timid approaches, of hesitation. Sometimes there was al¬ 
most fear in her eyes when she looked at Martin Moreland. 


i8 


THE WHITE FLAG 


This morning she had tried repeatedly to awaken her 
son. Over and over she called to him: “Junior, you must 
get up and dress! Don’t you remember that school begins 
to-day? You mustn’t be late. It would be too bad to 
begin a new year by being tardy.” 

From a near-by room Martin Moreland listened with a 
slight sneer on his handsome face. When his wife left 
the boy’s room in search of some article of clothing, he 
stepped to the side of the bed, shook Junior until he knew 
that the boy was awake, and then slid a shining dollar into 
his hand. 

“Get up and put on your fine new suit,” he said. 
“You’ll cut a pretty figure being late for school. The 
son of the richest man in town should be first. He should 
show the other children that he is their natural leader. 
Come now, stir yourself.” 

Junior immediately slid out of bed and began putting 
on the clothing his mother had laid out for him, slipping 
the money into a pocket before she saw it. As he dressed, 
an expression of discontent settled on his handsome young 
face. Everything in his home was sombre, substantial, 
and very expensive, but he knew that it was not a happy 
home. At the last minute he entered the dining room, 
wearing a shirt of ruffled lawn, long trousers, and a blouse 
of dark blue velvet with a flowing tie of dark blue lined 
with red. His wavy black hair was like his mother’s, so 
were his dark eyes, but his face was shaped very much 
on the lines of his father’s. He dropped to his chair and 
looked at the table with eyes of disapproval. 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 19 


“ Why can’t we ever have something fit to eat ? ” he asked. 

“That is exactly what I am wondering/’ added his 
father. 

Mrs. Moreland surveyed the table critically. 

“Why, what is the trouble?” she asked anxiously. 
“Everything seems to be here. The food looks all right. 
How can you tell that it doesn’t suit you, when you 
haven’t even tasted it?” 

“I am going on the supposition,” said the elder More¬ 
land, “that Hannah hasn’t greatly changed since supper 
last night, which wasn’t fit for a dog.” 

“Then I’d better discharge her at once, and try to find 
some one else,” said Mrs. Moreland with unexpected spirit. 

In his own way the banker retreated. 

“What good would that do?” he asked shortly. “You 
would let the next woman you hire spoil things exactly 
the same way you have Hannah. We might as well go 
on eating the stuff she gives us as to have somebody else 
do the same thing.” 

Then he proceeded to eat heartily of the food that was 
set before him. But Junior fidgeted in his chair, pushed 
back his plate, and refused to eat anything until the 
clanging of the first bell on the school house reached his 
ears. Then he jumped up, and, running into the hall, 
snatched his cap from the rack and clapped it on the back 
of his head. He stood hesitating a second, then, returning 
to the dining room, caught up all the food he could carry 
in his hands, rushing from the house without taking the 
satchel of books his mother had ready for him. 


20 


THE WHITE FLAG 


A minute later Mrs. Moreland saw them and hurried 
after him. He turned at her call, but he would not stop. 
He went on down the street munching the food he carried, 
while she stood looking after him, unconsciously shaking 
her head. In her heart, depression and foreboding almost 
equalled any hope she had concerning him, yet it was on 
hope for him that she lived. 

Earlier than any of these households, Marcia Peters 
opened a door that led to a garret of her small house and 
called: “Jason!” As she stood waiting to hear the sound 
of a voice that would indicate that the lad was awake, 
her hand rested against the door casing in a position of 
unconscious grace. She was unusually tall for a woman, 
her clothing so careless as completely to conceal her figure. 
Her hair was drawn straight back and wadded in a tight 
knot on the top of her head at the most disfiguring angle 
possible. She did expert laundry work and mending for 
a living. Her home was a tiny house, owned by the 
banker, on the outskirts of town. She made no friends 
and very seldom appeared on the streets. 

“Jason!” she repeated sharply, and immediately there¬ 
after she heard the boy’s feet on the floor. A few minutes 
later he came hurrying down the stairway on the run. If 
he had stopped to think of it, he might have realized that 
most of his life he had been on the run. He ran all over 
town, collecting and delivering Marcia’s work. Between 
times he ran errands for other people for the nickels and 
dimes that they paid him. Mostly he was late and ran to 
school. This continuous running on scant fare kept him 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 


21 


pale and lean, but the exercise developed muscle, the 
strength of which was untried, save on work. There was 
a wistful flash across his thin, homely face at times, and 
continuous loneliness in his heart. Being the son of the 
village washerwoman he had always been snubbed and 
imposed upon by other children, while he never had ex¬ 
perienced the slightest degree of mother love from Marcia. 
He milked the cow, watered and fed the chickens, and then 
hurried to the Spellman home to bring a big basket of 
clothes for his mother to wash. With these he stopped 
at the grocery of Peter Potter, on Market Street, for pack¬ 
ages of food which he carried home on the top of his 
clothes basket, and in handling them his fingers struck 
the apple. How good of Jemima Davis! She had tucked 
in a teacake, a cooky, a piece of candy, or an apple for 
him before. Next time he must surely thank her. The 
apple was firm and juicy and tasted as if flavoured with 
flowers. He must surely muster courage the next time to 
thank her, but not if Mrs. Spellman was in the kitchen. 
She might not know that Jemima gave away her apples. 
He had heard her say in a sweetly inflected voice when 
money was being raised in church for foreign missions: 
“We will give fifty dollars”; but he had never known her 
to give an apple to a hungry boy. Then a thought as 

delicious as the apple struck him. Maybe-just 

maybe- He did not even dare think it. But she 

never had joined the other children in trying to shame 
him. Maybe- 

His position in school always had been made difficult 





22 


THE WHITE FLAG 


and bitter to him by cruel, thoughtless children. It did 
not help that he had an excellent mind and very nearly 
always stood at the head of his classes. In school he had 
a habit of setting his elbows on his desk, grasping his head 
with a hand on either side, and, leaning forward, he really 
concentrated. He knew that his only chance lay in 
thoroughly learning his lessons. He could not be clothed 
as were the other children, his mother’s occupation shut 
him from social intercourse with them; he was not invited 
to their little parties and merry-makings. If he ever rose 
to a position of wealth and distinction like Mr. Moreland 
or Mr. Spellman, it must be through thorough applica¬ 
tion during school hours, because he had short time out¬ 
side. The result was that his nervous fingers, straying 
through a heavy shock of silky reddish hair slightly wavy, 
kept it forever standing on end, and this, coupled with his 
lean, freckled face, made him just a trifle homelier than he 
would have been had his mother carefully dressed and 
brushed him as were most of the other children. 

In school he allowed himself only one distraction. When 
he had pored over a book until his brain and body de¬ 
manded relaxation, then he resorted to the pleasant diver¬ 
sion of studying the loveliest thing Number Five afforded. 
He studied Mahala Spellman. He was familiar with every 
flash of her eyes, every light on her face, each curl on her 
head. When she folded her hands and repeated: “Our 
Father Which art in Heaven,” during morning exercises, 
she was like an angel straight down from the skies. When 
she hid behind her Geography and surreptitiously nibbled 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY" 23 


a bit of candy, or flipped a note to Edith Williams, the 
laughter on her face, the mischief in her eyes,—Heaven 
had nothing in the way of angels having eyes to begin to 
compare with the dancing blue of her eyes,—the varying 
rose of her cheeks, the adorable sweetness of her little 
pampered body were irresistible. 

Jason hurried into the kitchen. Setting the basket on 
the floor he snatched off the groceries and laid them on the 
table and looked around to see if there was anything fur¬ 
ther he might do that would be of help before he left for 
school. 

“That basket is about twice as heavy as usual," he said, 
“I am afraid it means a hard day for you." 

Marcia Peters looked at the boy and in the deeps of her 
eyes there was a slight flicker that he did not catch. Nei¬ 
ther did he notice that one of her hands slightly lifted and 
reached in his direction; the flicker was so impalpable, the 
hand controlled so instantly, that both escaped his notice. 

“Elizabeth Spellman entertained the Mite Society last 
week," she said tersely, “and. of course, she used stacks of 
embroidered linen and napkins tnat I must send back in 
perfect condition. You had better take your books and 
march to school now, and be mighty careful that you keep 
at the head of your class. It’s your only hope.. Never 
forget that." 

Jason crossed the room, and from a shelf in the living 
room took down a stack of books. He never forgot. 

“I’ll do my best," he said, “but it isn’t as easy as you 
might think." 


THE WHITE FLAG 


M 

“I don’t know what I ever did or said,” retorted Marcia, 
‘That would give you the impression that I thought any¬ 
thing about life was easy for either one of us. ‘Easy’ is 
a funny word to use in connection with this house.” 

Jason found himself standing straight, gripping his 
books, and looking into her eyes. 

“I’m sorry you have to work so hard,” he said. 

His glance left the face of the woman before him and 
ran over the small mean kitchen, the plain, ugly living 
room. Without seeing it actually, he mentally saw the 
house outside, and the unprepossessing surroundings. 
There was a catch in his breath as he again faced Marcia. 

“I’ll try very hard,” he told her, “and maybe it won’t be 
long until I can be a lawyer or a doctor or rent a piece of 
land, and then I’ll take care of you like a real lady.” 

And again a close observer could have seen a stifled 
impulse toward the boy on the part of the woman; but it 
was not of sufficient impetus that the boy caught it, for 
he hesitated a second longer, then turning on his heel, he 
ran from the room and made his way down the street, 
happy to discover that for once he had plenty of time. 

So it happened that at the same hour these four children 
were on the different streets of Ashwater, all headed 
toward the village school house, a grade and high school 
combined in one brick building designed for the educa¬ 
tional purposes of the town. The day labourers of the 
village had passed over those same streets earlier that 
morning. The people that the children met were doctors 
and lawyers going to their offices, and the housewives of 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 


25 


the village, many of them with their baskets on their arms, 
going to do their morning shopping. Front walks were 
being swept and rugs shaken from verandas. Walking 
demurely arm in arm, chattering to each other, went 
Mahala Spellman and Edith Williams. At the same time 
they saw an approaching figure and their arms tightened 
around each other. 

Down the street toward them came a woman that all 
the village knew and spoke of as Crazy Becky. She wore 
the usual long, wide skirt of the period, with the neat, 
closely fitting waist. Her dress was of a delicately flow¬ 
ered white calico carefully made, her face and head covered 
by a deep sunbonnet well drawn forward. The children 
were accustomed to having only a peep of her face with 
its exquisite modelling, delicate colouring, and big, wide- 
open, blue-gray eyes with long, dark lashes. Sometimes 
a little person, passing her closely and peering up, caught a 
gleam of wavy golden hair surrounding her face. Over one 
shoulder, firmly gripped in her hand, was a long red osier 
cut from the cornels bordering the river. From it there 
waved behind her as she walked, a flag of snow-white 
muslin, neatly tacked to its holder and carefully fringed 
on the lower edge. In the other hand she carried an 
empty basket. On her face was a look of expectancy. 
Always her eyes were flashing everywhere in eager search 
for something. 

Seeing the children coming in all directions, she stationed 
herself on the steps leading to the lawn of a residence that 
stood slightly above the street, and facing the passers-by. 


26 


THE WHITE FLAG 


she began to offer them the privilege of walking under her 
white flag. In a mellow voice, sweet and pathetic, she 
began timidly: “Behold the White Flag! Mark the em¬ 
blem of purity." Then, gathering courage, she cried to 
those approaching her: “If you know in your hearts that 
you are clean, pass under the flag with God's blessing. If 
you know that your hearts are filled with evil, bow your 
heads, pass under, and the flag will make you clean." 

The people passing Rebecca acted in accordance with 
the dictates of common human nature. Those who knew 
her, humoured her, and gravely bowing their heads, passed 
under the flag to her intense delight. Several strangers 
in the village who had not seen her before and did not 
understand her pathetic history, stared at her in amaze¬ 
ment and hurried past. It had been such a long stretch 
from the days when John had cried in the wilderness that 
he was forgotten. As always, there were the coarse and 
careless who sneered at Rebecca and said rough, provoking 
things to her. After these she hurled threats of a dreadful 
nature and the serene beauty of her face was marred with 
anger for a few moments. 

Edith Williams walked slowly and gripped Mahala 
tighter. 

“Let’s run across the street," she whispered. “I’m 
afraid of her." 

Mahala tightened her grip on her little friend: “I shan’t 
run from her," she said. “Fm not afraid of her. She’s 
never yet hurt anybody who treated her politely. She 
only fights with naughty boys who tease her. Smile at 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 27 


her and say: ‘Good morning! Please, may I pass under 
your flag?’ and she will do anything in the world for you. 
Mama always walks under Becky’s flag. Watch me and 
do it as I do.” 

Then Mahala, who had been taught all her life that she 
was to set an example for the other children of Ashwater, 
dropped her arm from Edith’s, and gripping her ink bottle 
and her books, bravely concealed the flutter of fear that 
was in her small heart. She marched up to Rebecca and 
made her a graceful bow. 

“Good morning,” she said with suave politeness. 
“Please, may I pass under your flag this morning?” 

Encouraged by the pleased smile Rebecca gave her, 
she added: “I try very hard to be a good child.” 

“God has a blessing for all good children. Pass under 
the flag,” said Rebecca. She drew up her form to full 
height, extended her arm and held the flag in the morning 
sunlight. There was beauty in her figure, there was 
beauty in the expression of her perfectly cut face, there 
was grace in her attitude, and the white banner, hanging 
from its red support, really appeared like an emblem of 
purity. A queer thrill surged through Mahala. She 
bowed her head and with precise steps passed under the 
flag reverently. 

Then Edith Williams repeated her words and walked 
under the flag also, joining Mahala who was waiting for 
her. Close behind them came Junior Moreland sur¬ 
rounded by a crowd of boys of whom he was evidently 
the leader. He was a handsome lad in the morning light. 


28 


THE WHITE FLAG 


and the beauty of his face and figure was emphasized by 
his rich suit of velveteen, his broad collar, and his tie of 
silk. The instant he saw Rebecca he whispered to the 
other boys: “Oh, look! There’s Crazy Becky. Come on, 
let’s have some sport with her.” 

Immediately the boys rushed in a crowd toward Rebecca, 
led by Junior. They made faces at her, they tried to 
snatch the flag which she held at arm’s length high above 
their heads, they tweaked her skirts, and one of them, 
more daring than the others, slipped behind her and pulled 
the bonnet from her head by the crown, exposing her face 
and uncoiling a thick roll of waving gold hair. In an 
effort to be especially daring, to outdo all the others, 
Junior sprang high and snatched the flag from her hand in 
a flying leap. Then he trailed it in the dirt of the gutter. 
He pulled off his cap, and bowing from the waist before 
her, he offered the soiled emblem to her. To Rebecca 
this was the most horrible thing that could happen. Her 
deranged brain was firm in the conviction that it was her 
mission in life to keep that flag snow-white, to use it as 
the emblem of purity. Instantly, a paroxysm of anger 
shook her. Her face became distorted; she dropped the 
flag and started after the offender. Junior was afraid 
of Rebecca in a spasm of anger, because he knew that the 
strongest man in town could not hold her when she be¬ 
came violent. So he dodged from under her clutching 
fingers and ran toward the school house. 

Mahala and Edith heard the cries and turned just in 
time to see the white flag polluted. 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 29 

“Oh, the wicked, wicked boy!” cried Mahala. She 
dragged Edith out of the way of the oncoming rush, but 
as she did so, her eyes swiftly searched the board walk 
over which they had been passing. One of her feet moved 
forward from beneath the hem of her skirts and a toe tip 
was firmly set on the end of a loose board. As Junior 
approached, running swiftly, that board lifted slightly so 
that he tripped over it and fell sprawling, soiling his hands, 
his face, and sliding over the walk on his velvet suit. 
Unable to stop in her rush after him, Rebecca tripped and 
fell on him in a heap. Jason turned a corner and came 
in sight, reading one of his books as he walked. 

Instantly he understood. He dropped his books on a 
strip of grass between the fence and the walk, and ran to> 
Rebecca. He helped her to her feet, and knowing her 
aversion to having her head and face seen by the public, 
he flew to find and replace her bonnet. He found the 
white flag and did what he could to straighten and clean 
it, and, as he put it into her hand, he said to her: “Never 
mind, you can wash it, you know. You can make it white 
again in only a little while. If I were you, Td go back 
home and wash it right away.” 

The fact that some one was sympathizing with her, was 
helping her, comforted Rebecca. She looked at Jason 
intently. 

“You are a good boy,” she said. “You have a white 
soul. I will go back and make the flag white again.” 

She turned and went back toward the small house where 
she lived alone on the outskirts of the village. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


3 ° 

Junior stood scowling, beating the dust from his cloth¬ 
ing. He was jarred and angry. He wanted to reinstate 
himself, to dominate some one. Jason was his legitimate 
prey. He advanced, blocking the other boy’s way. 
Jason tried to extricate himself. He wanted to avoid 
trouble. He put out his hands to keep the boys from 
pulling at his clothing and tried to back from the crowd. 
As he did so he found Mahala Spellman by his side. She 
had been in the same room in school with him ever since 
they had begun going to school. To his amazement he 
heard her whisper at his elbow: “Out early and late like you 
are, I bet you ain’t afraid of any boy in the whole world.” 

Jason stopped suddenly. His figure stiffened and 
straightened. A queer light passed over his face. At his 
elbow Mahala whispered: “Carrying those big, heavy 
baskets like you do, I bet your arms are strongest of any 
boy in this town.” 

Jason’s fists clenched. His arms flexed involuntarily. 
At his elbow came the whisper: “Remember the bugs!” 

Jason’s mind flew to a poem in one of the school readers. 
Into his brain rushed the lines: 

Three little bugs in a basket, 

And hardly room for two— 

and again, with the kaleidoscopic rush of memory: 

Then he that was cold and hungry, 

Strength from his weakness drew, 

He pulled the rugs from the other bugs 
And he killed them and ate them, too. 



“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 31 

The son of the wealthiest man in town was standing 
before him, tweaking his coat, tormenting him. Sud¬ 
denly Jason doubled his fists and struck his hardest blow. 
Junior fell back among the other boys. They started to 
close in around Jason, but they found a valiant figure 
blocking their way. With her arms stretched wide, stood 
Mahala. Her eyes were dark and her voice was high and 
shrill. 

“Now you just keep back, you mean boys!’’ she 
screamed. “You just keep out of this! Junior started 
this, you just let him and Jason fight it out!” 

Because there is a thing in spirit, and a power in right 
and fair play that a mob always feels, silent and acquiesc¬ 
ing, the other children stepped back, and as they did so, 
the velvet-clad Junior glanced around him. On his face, 
it could be seen, that he was afraid. In his heart he knew 
that he was wrong. He was smarting from Jason’s blow. 
He would have liked to run, but he had his position to 
maintain as the leader of the other boys; he had been their 
leader all his life. He was accustomed to the admiration 
and the praise of the girls. There was nothing to do but 
to prove that he was not a coward; so he drew up and 
rushed Jason. The two began to fight. Jason was taller, 
more slender, a few months older, and there was untested 
strength in his arms, in the back and the legs that had 
carried heavy baskets of clothing and delivered bundles; 
the body that had been scantily fed and thoroughly exer¬ 
cised was the tougher, the quicker. Only a few blows 
proved to Junior that he was soft and practically helpless 


32 THE WHITE FLAG 

in Jason’s hands. In the delirium of victory, Jason seized 
the velvet coat at the neck and tore it off Junior. He 
snatched a ball bat from the hands of one of the boys, 
and hanging the coat on it, he waved it, crying: “Behold 
the black flag of riches! Pass under it and be damned!” 

Then the children shouted with laughter, which so 
intoxicated Jason that he went to the further extent of 
dragging the coat through the gutter exactly as Junior had 
dragged the white flag. He threw the soiled, rumpled thing 
at Junior’s feet. At the wildness of his daring, the chil¬ 
dren stood hushed and silent. Then, suddenly, they pre¬ 
tended to threaten Jason, but it was evident to him that 
they were delighted, that they were only trying to make 
Junior feel that they were sorry that he had been thrashed 
and soiled. 

It was Mahala who picked up the coat, crying: “Oh, 
Junior, your beautiful new coat is ruined!” 

She began brushing the dust from it with her hands. 
Jason stared at her in amazement, which changed to a slow 
daze when he saw that her swift fingers were enlarging an 
ugly tear across the front of the coat even while, with a 
face of compassion, she handed it back to Junior. 

So Jason “learned about women from ’er.” 

Junior took the coat from her hands, smarting, crest¬ 
fallen and soiled, and turned back toward his home, 
choking down gulping sobs that would rise in his throat, 
while the other children went to school. As they started, 
Mahala worked her way from among the others and 
dropped back beside Jason, who was left standing alone. 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 33 


“Did you find your apple?” she whispered. She slipped 
her hand into her pocket, took from it her dainty little 
handkerchief, and offered it to him to wipe the dirt and 
perspiration from his face. Jason refused to accept it, 
but when she insisted, he did take it; instead of using 
it for the purpose for which it had been offered he slipped 
it into the front of his blouse. Seeing this, Mahala sud¬ 
denly ran to overtake the other children, but when she 
reached Edith Williams she found her crying and shaking 
with nervousness. 

“I just hate you, Mahala Spellman,” she said. “I am 
never going to play with you any more, not if you get 
down on your hands and knees and beg me till you are 
black and blue in the face! I just hate you!” 

Mahala met this with the sweetest kind of a smile. 

“I’d like to know what I’ve done to you, Edith Wil¬ 
liams,” she said innocently. 

“You know what you have done to me, and I tell 
you I hate you, and I am going to tell your mother on 
you! 

Mahala looked at her reflectively. 

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you did,” she said. 
“It would be presackly like you. Doing things like that 
is why you haven’t got a friend but me, and you have not 
got me any more. I’m done with you! You needn’t 
hang around me any more.” 

Then Mahala turned a little back, very straight, with 
very square shoulders and a very high head, and marched 
down the street toward the school house, while the other 


54 


THE WHITE FLAG 


girls crowded around her, delighted that she and Edith 
were having trouble. 

Almost exploding with rage over his humiliation, hurt 
from his punishment, and thoroughly frightened at the 
condition of his new suit, Junior started back home, while 
with each step that he took in that direction his mental 
stress increased. In culmination he entered the room 
bellowing, while his father and mother were still at break¬ 
fast. His mother threw up her hands and cried out in 
horror over his condition. His father was not only shocked 
and angry over whatever it was that had returned to him 
in such a condition the boy who was the pride of his heart, 
the very light of his eyes, but he had a lively remem¬ 
brance of what that velvet suit had cost him and the 
pride he had taken in purchasing it for Junior because he 
meant always that he should be the best-dressed boy in 
the town. He seized Junior, shook him violently, and 
raised his hand to strike, all other emotions submerged in 
the one impulse that made money his God even above love. 
Junior tore from his hands, and running to his mother, 
dodged behind her. His father pursued him. Mrs. 
Moreland arose, spreading her skirts and her arms to 
cover Junior. 

“Wait, Martin! Wait!” she cried. 

It was evident that her heart was bound up in the boy 
far above any financial considerations, and it was also 
evident that she was afraid of the angry man she was 
facing; but she was not so much afraid that she was not 
willing to interpose her own body, if by so doing she could 


"HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 35 


screen the boy. At the same time she cried to him* 
"Junior! Tell your father what happened to you* 
Explain!” 

Under the shelter of her protection, Junior stopped 
crying. He wiped his eyes and faced his father defiantly. 

"If I was on the City Council like you are, Fd fix up the 
sidewalks of this nasty old town so the boards wouldn’t fly 
up and throw folks down and ruin their clothes,” he cried. 

His father stared at him in amazement. Instantly 
Junior’s mother agreed with him. 

"That is quite true, Martin,” she said. "Only last 
week Jenny Sherman tripped on a loose board on her way 
to church. She almost broke her knee and ripped the 
whole front out of a very expensive silk dress. Some of 
these days somebody’s going to sue this town for damages 
and you will have the biggest part of them to pay. The 

only wonder is that Junior is not in worse shape than he 

• >> 
is. 

Reassured by her backing, Junior came from behind her, 
but he still held her arm. Martin Moreland surveyed the 
pair scornfully. 

"Will you please explain,” he said to his wife, "how 
merely tripping and falling could get Junior into his pres¬ 
ent condition?” 

Realizing that this was impossible, and anger and hu¬ 
miliation surging up in him, Junior cried out: "Of course, 
just falling only started it. The minute I was down that 
mean old coward of a Jason Peters took his chance to 
jump on my back and start a fight when I couldn’t help 


3 6 THE WHITE FLAG 

myself. I took off my coat and gave it to one of the boys 
to hold while I beat him up as he deserved, and when he 
couldn’t do anything with me, before I saw what he in¬ 
tended, Jason snatched my coat and tore it and dragged 

it in the gutter on purpose.” 

This immediately transferred Martin Moreland’s wrath 

and cupidity from Junior to Jason. 

“Why didn’t you tell your teacher?” he thundered. 

“It happened on the street. I wasn’t fit to go to 
school,” Junior made explanation. 

The elder Moreland lost control of himself. His power 
had been defied, dhe tangible proof of his wealth had 
been dragged in the gutter. The child of his heart had 
been hurt and shamed. Martin Moreland did not stop 
to remember that he had been at the point of hurting the 
boy himself; what he really was overpoweringly angry 
about was that he felt Junior’s condition to be a blow 
limed vicariously at his own person. In his heart he 
knew how many hands would be raised against him, if by 
chance a first hand were raised by a leader. He knew 
what would happen to any man attacking him; he would 
see to it that a blow struck at him through his boy, even 
by another boy, should be so punished that another 
offence of the kind could never occur. He turned to his 
wife. 

“You see how quick you can wash Junior and put him 
into his other suit,” he said. “I will take him back to 
school in the carriage. I intend to have it understood 
by the Superintendent and the teachers that the son 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 37 


of the heaviest tax payer and the president of the School 
Board has some rights!” 

An hour later the door of Room Five was suddenly flung 
wide and on the threshold stood the imposing figure of the 
banker, beside him his son, clothed in his second best suit, 
his composure quite recovered. The boy marched in and 
found a vacant seat among his classmates. Miss Mehit- 
able Ashcroft dropped the book she was holding and stared 
at the banker. A whiteness slowly overspread her face. 
She had been teaching school so many years that she 
should have been fortified for anything; but she was not. 
As she grew older the nerve strain of each day of noise and 
confusion bit deeper into her physical strength. She 
lifted a bewildered hand to smooth down the graying hair 
that dipped over her ears and lifted to a meagre coil at the 
back, and then her hands fell and began fingering the folds 
of a black calico skirt liberally sprinkled with white huckle¬ 
berries. Suddenly she found her voice and quaveringly 
she said: “Good morning, Mr. Moreland. We are so glad 
to see you. Won’t you have a chair?” 

Mr. Moreland was a tall man with a heavy frame. The 
lines in his face at that minute were not pleasant. He had 
eyes of intense vision; in anger they were ugly eyes. They 
went flashing over the room from pupil to pupil until they 
found and settled on the white face of Jason Peters. 
There was something of the look on Jason’s face that was 
on the face of the banker as their eyes met and clashed; 
a hate of arrogant fearlessness. Martin Moreland lifted 
a shaking finger. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


38 

“I have come,” he said, “to accompany Jason Peters 
to the office of the Superintendent. I will have it under¬ 
stood that while I am the president of the School Board 
and while I am the heaviest tax payer in this town, the 
sons of washerwomen, or the sons of any one else, will not 
undertake, in a cowardly and underhand manner, to abuse 
my son.” 

Martin Moreland was an imposing figure; he knew 
^better than any one else exactly how imposing. He never 
•saw himself in a mirror or reflected on a plate-glass window 
hie was passing, without making sure that the imposing 
part of him was well in evidence. He was at his tallest, 
his coldest, his most arresting moment as he rolled out 
“my son” at the awed children, pausing to allow his words 
to sink deeply, and well gratified to note that they did. 

The frightened children sat in silence in their seats. 
Mahala Spellman looked at Jason, studying his set white 
face; then she glanced at Junior, his head again lifted in 
prideful assurance; and then her gaze travelled to his 
father. She studied him intently, and slowly upon her 
little face there gathered a look of intense indignation. 
But on the faces of the other children there could be seen 
only the deep impression that had been made as to the 
power of riches. 

“Jason,” said the teacher, “you will accompany Mr. 
Moreland to the office of the Superintendent.” 

For one instant Jason sat very still; then he arose and 
left the room. It was a long time before he returned. 
When he came back his eyes were dry but he was white 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 39 

and shaken. It was evident to every one that he had 
been beaten until he was scarcely able to cross the room 
and reach his seat. 

Facing the school, Mehitable Ashcroft studied the 
children. She hated herself as badly as she hated a 
number of them. She could see the brilliant spot on the 
cheek and the bright eyes of Mahala Spellman. She 
knew that if she asked her she would arise in her place and 
tell the truth about what must have happened on the way 
to school. She knew that she should have done this be¬ 
fore she allowed Jason to leave the room. She knew, too, 
that he should not have been sent to be beaten and 
humiliated unless he deserved it. From what she knew of 
his character and his work in school, she was certain that he 
did not deserve it. On the faces of a part of the children 
she could read the message that they were trying to convey 
to her that an injustice had been committed; that she had 
countenanced an unfair thing. On the remainder of the 
faces she could read the fact that they, too, had this 
realizing sense but that they intended, the minute school 
was dismissed, to crowd around Junior and follow his 
leadership. She had no doubt in her heart that whatever 
had happened would be carried further and that Jason 
would again experience taunts and treatment that were 
unjust. She stood there—hating herself that she did 
nothing and said nothing. In looking back over the years 
during which she had held her position because of many 
occurrences of a similar nature, she might have found the 
answer as to why she was already nervous and prema- 


THE WHITE FLAG 


40 

turely ageing—as to why she hated her profession and her¬ 
self. She had needed her position so badly, what she 
must do to hold it had been made so clear to her. 

At the noon hour as the children left the school grounds, 
Junior was strutting proudly at the head of a group of 
boys, bragging about what his father could do to the old 
Superintendent, about what he had done to Jason, and 
about what was coming to any other boy who got smart 
with him. While this was occurring on a corner Mahala 
passed by, surrounded by a crowd of admiring little girl 
friends, who were followed by Edith Williams, darkly 
frowning, walking alone. 

Mahala’s quick eyes saw what was going on. Her heart 
was rebelling at injustice. She stopped on the sidewalk, 
pointed her hnger at Junior, and began a sing-song chant: 

“Cowardy calf, cowardy calf! 

Teased a poor crazy woman 

And got the thrashing he deserved for it. 

Ran home bellowing to Papa 
And told a lot of lies 
To get a brave boy whipped. 

Cowardy calf, cowardy calf!” 

Then the other little girls and some of the boys, with the 
flexibility of childhood, pointed their fingers at Junior and 
began shrieking, “Cowardy calf!” until he was furious. 
But he was helpless among such numbers as were ranged 
against him, so, breaking from the group, he ran down the 
street with all his might. As far as he could hear, a shrill 
chorus followed him: “Cowardy calf! Cowardy calf!” 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 41 

Jason lingered in the lower hallway until the other 
children had left the school grounds and were some dis¬ 
tance ahead of him; then he followed. In passing down 
Market Street on his way home, he saw Peter Potter 
standing at the door of his grocery with a heaped basket 
in his hand, looking up the street and down the street, 
evidently wondering why his delivery wagon was not 
standing before his door as it should have been. In¬ 
stantly, Jason changed his course and headed toward 
Peter, because he and Peter were friends. The time had 
been when Peter was the leading grocer of the village, but 
he had not been able to make his way against the new 
methods and the seductive advertising of an opponent 
who, in recent years, had been able to take a good deal of 
his trade. Peter was not suffering from either cold or 
hunger. His fifty years had left his British face round and 
jolly. He was not sufficiently energetic to exert himself to 
an extent that would bring him back his lost opportunities. 
Instead of trying to regain his position, he tried by close¬ 
ness in all his dealings to recover his losses, but he only 
succeeded in narrowing his soul, which had been fashioned 
rather narrow in the making. 

When he saw Jason coming toward him he began to 
smile. He had asked several boys passing to deliver the 
groceries and they had refused; but here was a boy who 
would not refuse. Here was a boy who frequently had 
helped him for very small pay. Peter explained that, for 
some reason, his wagon had not returned from the ten- 
o’clock delivery and these later orders were wanted for 


42 


THE WHITE FLAG 


the dinners of some of his customers. Jason immediately 
shouldered the heavy basket and started on a long trip 
across town. When he returned the delivery slips, Peter 
understood that Jason would not have time to go home 
for his dinner, so he cut him a very small piece of cheese 
and gave him a handful of crackers to pay for having de¬ 
livered the orders. Jason started back to school munch¬ 
ing as he went. 

His body was stiff and sore, but his heart was crushed. 
The boys knew that he had tried to get away without 
trouble; several of the girls had seen Junior push and mal¬ 
treat him; at his elbow there had been the whisper that 
nerved him—yet when his hour came he had stood alone. 
He had felt Mahala’s eyes on him, but he would not let 
himself look at her, in the fear that he would seem to be 
asking her help, and so involve her in trouble. All of 
them, the teacher included, had kept still. He was to 
understand that Junior was to do with him exactly as he 
eh se. He was a few months older, he was taller, he was 
stronger, but because he was poor and Junior was rich, he 
must endure taunt, insult, even submit to being pushed 
and pulled. A slow red rimmed Jason’s ears. He lifted a 
hand to allay the pricking in his scalp. Would he follow 
alleys and back streets, and dodge and hide from Junior, 
or would he meet him unafraid ? He had no reason to fear 
Junior, but he remembered strong men who deeply feared 
the power behind the boy. As Jason slowly walked toward 
the school house, his brain and blood were in tumult. 

When the last companion left her, Mahala had two 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 43 

blocks for sober reflection. She was ashamed of herself. 
She had incited Jason to strike Junior; when his father 
came into the school room she should have faced him 
bravely and cried out the truth. Maybe she could have 
saved Jason a beating. Never having suffered a blow her¬ 
self, Mahala did not fully realize just what had happened 
to Jason. She did know that she had not been brave or 
fair in school. At least she had shamed Junior on the 
street and let him see what she thought of him. That 
made her feel better, and Jason knew she felt sorry for 
him. He did know that; but what must he think of her? 
And what ailed Edith Williams? Would Edith start to 
school early and tell the other girls things that would 
make them desert Mahala and be friends with her? 

A daring thought flashed in Mahala’s brain. She 
knew how to hold her ascendancy. Dinner was not quite 
ready when she entered the house. She kissed her 
mother, and slipping to the living room, she snatched her 
charm string from its place in the little mahogany sewing- 
table pocket, and hid it in the folds of her dress. Her 
mother would attend the Mite Society, held on Monday so 
that ladies of wealth might feel their superiority through 
having freedom to attend, and those that worked might 
gauge their inferiority by the amount of extra work they 
would be compelled to do in order to find time for the 
meeting. Mahala felt wildly daring; but her position de¬ 
manded some risk. She darted across the door yard, 
tucked the heavy glittering string in a grassy corner of the 
fence, and managed her return unobserved. Now if only 


44 THE WHITE FLAG 

her mother would not be so silly as to follow her to the 
°nte—but she was! So Mahala was forced to walk to the 
corner demurely, throw back a farewell kiss, and disap¬ 
pear. Then she must wait a palpitant interval, fly back 
on guilty feet, thrust a small hand through the fence, draw 
out the precious charm string, carefully, and race headlong 
toward the corner again. Safely past it, she might pause 
and hang the glittering length around her neck in gleaming 
festoons to her knees. Edith Williams would turn the 
other girls against her, would she? Mahala proudly 
swung the string before her and made a tongue-exposing 
face at an invisible Edith. She knew what would happen, 
and she was secure in her knowledge. The first little girl 
who saw her ran straight to her side and remained; the 
others came as they appeared around diverse corners— 
and remained. Every one of them had a charm string, 
but what meagre little things compared with the magnifi¬ 
cence of the string of the merchant’s daughter who might 
have the sample button from every emptied box as it left 
his shelves, to whom wonderful buttons of brass and glass 
and bone and pearl came in handfuls at every trip to New 
York to buy goods. Mahala’s eyes were shining, her 
heart was throbbing. She knew the history of every 
button on her string: “ Post Commander Johnston cut that 
right from the vest of his soldier suit, and that’s the top 
left-hand one from Papa’s dress vest, and that is from the 

coat of Mama’s best friend-” she told them over like a 

rosary as they slipped through her fingers—great, brass- 
rimmed circles of glass with gay flower faces showing 




“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 


45 

through, carved insets of bird and animal, globes of every 
size, colour, and cutting that ever held fast a garment worn 
by man or woman—Edith Williams indeed! 

Mahala could scarcely step for the eager crowd around 
her. She disposed of the rule that charm strings were not 
to be brought to school by leaving hers with the teacher 
with a polite little speech, and got it safely back in place 
before her mother's return from the Mite Society. Such 
is the reward of a slight degree of daring. Edith Williams! 
Indeed, twice over! 

That night in her bedroom, when Mahala's mother was 
undressing her, she saw the empty pocket with eyes that 
nothing escaped, and exclaimed: “Oh, Mahala! You 
couldn't have lost your beautiful embroidered linen hand¬ 
kerchief. I purposely make your pockets so very deep.” 

Mahala hesitated. Her first impulse was to say that 
she had lost the handkerchief because she knew that her 
mother would disapprove of her even speaking to the son 
of their washerwoman. But her astute mother had cut 
off that avenue of escape by pointing out the depth of her 
pocket. So she assumed a look which she knew her 
mother considered angelic, she clasped her little hands be¬ 
fore her and lifted her face, exclaiming: “Oh, Mama dear, 
please excuse me! I gave it to a poor boy to wipe his 
tears.” 

Instantly Mrs. Spellman gathered Mahala in her arms 
and kissed her passionately. She sat down in a chair, 
drawing the child to her lap. She was thoroughly de¬ 
lighted. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


46 

“Tell me, darling, tell me what happened/' she said. 

Mahala, in detail, told of the troubles of the morning. 
She told precisely the truth where it concerned Rebecca 
and the desecration of the white flag. She left untold her 
part in any occurrence where she knew her mother would 
disapprove. When the story was finished, Mrs. Spellman 
felt that Junior Moreland was not being properly reared; 
that Jason had been abused; and that her Mahala was 
growing into precisely the kind of a woman that she wanted 
her to be. She went on undressing the child with custom¬ 
ary precision, hanging each of her garments upon a hook, 
having her set her shoes in a certain spot with the toes 
even, patiently and carefully brushing and stroking her 
hair and winding it upon the curlers for the morning. 
Then together they knelt beside Mahala's bed while she 
said her prayers. Then the mother prayed. She asked 
of the Lord that He would make of her little girl a 
good child, an obedient child, and one having a fair mind 
and a tender heart. She begged that Mahala might be 
given the courage always to set a good example before her 
playmates. Then she tucked her into bed, kissed her 
repeatedly, and turning out the lamp, she left her to go to 
sleep. 

As soon as the door was closed Mahala threw back the 
covers and sat up in bed. She listened until she heard 
the door of the living room close, then she expertly 
scratched a match and relighted the lamp. She was so 
accustomed to doing this that she managed the hot chim¬ 
ney without burning her fingers. She took the big wax 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 47 


doll, a gift from her father after one of his trips to New 
York, made it kneel beside the bed and then, in exact 
imitation of her mother’s voice and mannerisms, she 
prayed for the doll the same prayer that her mother had 
used for her, to all intent. But if Mrs. Spellman had been 
listening she would have heard her own tones and accents 
saying: “And Oh, our Heavenly Father, help my little 
girl to always show the other bad, naughty children ex¬ 
actly how they should behave, and how their hair should 
be curled, and how clean their aprons should be, and how 
nice they ought to keep their slippers, and how they 
should be polite to grown-up people, and slap each other 
good and hard when they need it, and look like I do, and 
behave like I do. Amen!” 

Then she opened the door to the adjoining room, and 
slipping in, she returned with an armload of clothing 
which she laid upon the bed. She pressed down the 
wrapped-up curls and tied them with a handkerchief; 
over them she put the carefully curled front which her 
mother wore with her Sunday bonnet and then she put 
the bonnet on her head. She stripped up her nighty and 
slipped into her mother’s hoop skirt, and pulling the 
nightdress down over the circling hoops of the skirt, she 
looked at herself in the mirror and clapped her little hands 
tight over her mouth to suppress a shriek at the ludicrous 
aspect she presented. She unfolded a Paisley shawl and 
arranged it over her shoulders; then she opened a fan and 
posturing with it, minced up and down before the glass, 
wearing on her face an expression of sanctified piety. She 


THE WHITE FLAG 


48 

made a journey about the room exactly in imitation of 
her mother, touching things here and there and repeatedly 
making little speeches to the doll. Sometimes as she 
passed the glass, she stuck out her tongue at her reflection, 
and tilting her skirts, did daring improvisations, dancing 
to tunes she softly hummed to accompany her perform¬ 
ance. 

When she was thoroughly tired of every ludicrous thing 
she could think of to do, she proved how very efficient her 
mother’s teaching had been by returning everything to 
its place in such an exact manner that the estimable lady 
never realized that her precious possessions had been 
touched. 

In his home that night, Martin Moreland spent the 
supper hour telling his wife, in Junior’s presence, what he 
had done at the school, how terribly he had had Jason 
punished, and ended by admonishing Junior always to 
let him know if he was imposed upon or any of the other 
children did not treat him with respectful deference. He 
gave Junior a piece of money, telling him to take his books 
and go to his room and study his lessons for the coming 
day. 

Junior said good-night to his father, kissed his mother, 
took up his books, and obediently went upstairs to his 
room. There he promptly climbed from the back window, 
slid dowm the slanting roof to a shed, from which he 
jumped to the ground. Following the alleys, he made his 
way down town where he spent the money for a deck of 
cards, a number of clay pipes, and a package of smoking 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 


49 


tobacco. Then he whistled at the back gates of several 
of the boys who were his particular friends and all of them 
crept up the alley beside the banker’s house, entered the 
barn loft, and made a deep nest in the hay so that the 
candle light they used would not show from the outside. 
There they smoked and played cards until it became so 
late that they dared not remain longer. 

Jason hurried home from school, fed the chickens, 
which were pets of his that he had bought with his earn¬ 
ings, milked the cow, and worked in the garden until it 
was dark. Then he came to the house, carefully washed, 
combed his hair, and sat down to a very scant supper that 
was awaiting him. Marcia did not speak to him or pay 
the slightest attention to his movements. She busied 
herself about the house or with some needlework. It 
was her custom to mend all the lace and fine linen that 
needed repairing in the washing that was sent to her, 
adding an extra charge to her bill. When he had finished, 
Jason washed the dishes he had used, put away the food, 
took his book, and sat dow T n to a diligent study of his 
lessons. 

At an early hour Marcia ordered him to go to bed, so he 
climbed the narrow stairway to the garret and undressed 
by the light of the moon shining in the uncurtained win¬ 
dow. He was so sore and stiff that he soon fell asleep. 

Immediately after he had gone, Marcia unlocked the 
door to one room of the small house which was always 
closed. Jason had never even peeped inside it. This 
room she entered and threw aside her working clothes. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


I 


50 


She bathed, unloosed and combed out a coil of beautiful 
curling hair, looping it in loose waves over her head. She 
rouged her cheeks and lips and powdered her face, hands, 
and arms. She opened her closet door, and taking out 
an attractive dress, put it on, transforming herself into a 
startlingly beautiful woman. From a drawer she took a 
book and sat down to read, but occasionally she lifted her 
head and listened intently. Presently she arose and 
went through the living room and the kitchen in the dark, 
and standing at the door, softly inquired: “Who is there?” 

On hearing a low-voiced reply she opened the door and 
admitted Martin Moreland, who led the way to her room. 
She followed, closing and locking the door behind her, and 
turned to him with a smiling face, which gradually changed 
to one of doubt and uncertainty when she saw that he was 
in a state of almost ungovernable anger. His voice was 
shaking as he gave her Junior’s version of what had hap¬ 
pened during the day and then she noticed that in his hand 
he carried a cruel whip. He told her that he was going 
upstairs and beat the life half out of Jason. He was going 
to teach him for once and all that he could not interfere 
with the son of a rich man. He made the matter infinitely 
worse than it had been. Then he started toward the door. 

Marcia caught his arm. 

“But, Martin,” she cried, “how are you going to ac¬ 
count to Jason for your presence here?” 

And he retorted: “I don’t have to account to that brat 
for anything. He may as well understand that I came to 
teach him a lesson. He may as well know that I am 


“HE THAT WAS COLD AND HUNGRY” 51 

master of this house, and of anything else of which I choose 
to be master!” 

As he started up the stairway Marcia followed him. 
Then, realizing that Jason must not see her as she was, she 
turned back. She stood at the foot of the stairs, her hands 
clenched, listening to the sounds that came down to her. 
Several times she started up the stairs, but each time she 
remembered, and white and shaking, kept from sight. 

Finally, when the banker left Jason’s room, she went to 
her own, closed her door and locked it on the inside. When 
he turned the knob she refused admission, but after re¬ 
peated hammering and threats she finally yielded and 
unlocked the door. He entered, sat down in the best 
chair, and lighting a cigar, began to smoke. 

He said to her sneeringly: “You can take your time to 
cool off. That boy has got to realize once and for all that 
it is quite impossible for him to interfere in any way with 
any of the pleasures or the inclinations of my son.” 

Later she served him with wine and cake and delicious 
buttered biscuits, and when he had made himself thor¬ 
oughly at home, he took his leave. After he had gone, 
she again locked herself in her room, tore off the fine cloth¬ 
ing she had worn, and throwing it aside, pasted down her 
hair, slipped into her old dress, and, softly climbing the 
stairs, entered Jason’s room. He was stretched on the bed 
in a light sleep, breathing hard. His face was white and 
full of suffering. She stood over him, looking down at 
him for a long time. Then she straightened the covers 
and slipped from the room. She went back to her own 


52 


THE WHITE FLAG 


room, locked the door, and threw herself on her knees 
beside the bed, her arms stretched out among the finery 
she had worn, her face buried in the silken covers. 

In these homes and in this environment the four chil¬ 
dren advanced until they entered the first year of high 
school. 


CHAPTER II 


The Gifts of Light and Song 

D URING the recess period of a brilliant October 
day, Mahala spent her time inviting those pupils 
of her school who were her particular friends to 
attend her birthday party. At fourteen in appearance 
Mahala was what she had been destined to be from birth. 
Fourteen years of unceasing drilling, of constant care, 
of daily admonition on the part of Elizabeth Spellman had 
made habitual with her daughter an exquisite daintiness of 
person. The only criticism Jemima Davis had ever been 
known to make concerning Mrs. Spellman was that she 
was “nasty nice.” Mahala instinctively drew back from 
contact with anything that might soil her clothing or her 
person. While she was thus dainty concerning her ex¬ 
terior, she was equally cleanly and refined in the workings 
of her heart and her brain. Hers was an unusually active 
brain; her eyes were dashingly comprehensive. All her 
life she had been seeing and understanding a great many 
things that her father and mother never suspected that 
she had either seen or understood. But since her per¬ 
sonal fastidiousness extended to her brain as well as to 
her body, the result made a composite that was wholly 
charming. 


53 


54 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Mahala’s keen sense of humour kept her lips slightly 
curled, a dancing light in her eyes. She was always 
whispering to the anaemic shadow at her elbow: “Oh, 
Edith, did you see?” “Did you hear?” 

Almost always Edith did see and hear, but her in¬ 
terpretations and conclusions were scarcely ever the same 
as Mahala’s. The sour discontent of her really beauti¬ 
ful dark face came almost as a shock in contrast with 
Mahala’s person; while mentally the girls were even more 
unlike. Mahala always had a remedy, always had hope; 
Edith believed the worst of every one; so when she had 
leisure time she spent it looking for something worse that 
she might believe on the slightest pretext. 

The result was that every one in the village thought 
they loved Mahala, and it was curious that this should 
have been a universal attitude because the particularly 
spiritual quality of the child’s beauty always had been 
enhanced by the most tasteful and expensive clothing, so 
that no other girl of the town could bear comparison with 
her. Because she always had been generous, always con¬ 
siderate, always just, and always mirthful, she was sure 
that she was among friends. Every pupil who had gone 
through seven years of schooling with her knew that her 
word was secure. If she talked of an incident at all, she 
could be depended upon to tell the truth. If she criticised 
an offender, she cut deep, but she did it with fairness. She 
never wore offensively her dainty clothing, so carefully 
selected for her in the Eastern cities where her father went 
to buy goods. She was quite capable of pulling off her 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 


55 

coat on the street and allowing any of her girl friends to 
carry it home that a pattern might be cut from it. 

The most shocking occurrence the town had to record 
concerning Mahala was that one day, in bitter winter 
weather, she had surrounded herself on the street with a 
circle of her girl friends and in their shelter deftly removed 
her exquisitely embroidered petticoat for the benefit of a 
schoolmate who was visibly shivering with cold. When 
Mahala, with watery eyes and a red nose, faced her mother 
that night and confessed what she had done, Elizabeth 
Spellman began by being shocked and ended by becoming 
bewildered. 

“It was all right,” she said primly, ‘Tor you to give 
Susanna Bowers a petticoat, but you should have gone 
to the store to Papa and gotten one suitable for Su¬ 
sanna.” 

Mahala looked at her mother intently. 

“But, Mama,” she protested, “Susanna was chill¬ 
ing. She needed something that minute; my petticoat 
doesn't care who wears it. It just loves to keep Susanna 
warm.” 

A slow red suffused Elizabeth Spellman’s face. 

“And you didn’t stop to consider,” she said coldly, 
“that all the hours of work I put upon that petticoat went 
there for my very own little daughter, and not for a girl 
who will not know either how to appreciate or how to 
care for it, and who will have nothing else suitable to wear 
with it.” 

Mahala’s brightest light swept across her forehead. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


56 

“That’s exactly the truth, Mother,” she said emphatic 
tally. “I’ll tell Susanna about the borax and the rain 
water and how to wash her pretty new petticoat, and I’ll 
ask Papa to give me some more clothes for her, so the 
petticoat won’t feel so lonesome and ashamed of the things 
it’s with.” 

When Elizabeth Spellman detailed this conversation to 
Mahlon that night, she had considerable difficulty in 
gaining either his comprehension or his credence. There 
are not many men in the world named “Mahlon,” while 
it is a curious coincidence that all of them who are, seem 
very similar. Every fastidious fibre in Mahlon Spell- 
man’s being rebelled at the thought of the high grade 
of pressed flannel bearing the exquisite handwork that 
always had enfolded his child, being put on the person of 
any Susanna of the outskirts. Such a wonderful town as 
Ashwater had no business with outskirts; it had no busi¬ 
ness with men who were not successful; it had no business 
with women who were not thrifty and good housekeepers. 
It was possible for every human being to be comfortably 
housed, well dressed, and well fed, if they would exercise 
even a small degree of the personal efforts of which each 
one was capable. Mahlon felt outraged and he said so 
succinctly. He told his wife in very distinct terms that 
she had failed in her manifest duty. She should have sent 
Mahala to recover the garment at once. 

Mrs. Spellman looked at Mahlon intently. She usually 
toadied to him because that was the well-considered at¬ 
titude that as a bride she assumed to be the proper one; 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 


57 


ordinarily it was effective, but there were occasions when 
she told Mahlon the unvarnished truth. This appealed 
to her as very nearly, if not quite, an Occasion. 

“I did not tell her to go and bring it back,” she said 
very deliberately, “because I had grave doubts in my 
mind as to whether she would do it. I have never con¬ 
sidered it the part of wisdom to begin anything with our 
child that I feared I should not be able to finish. There 
was something about the look in her eyes, the tones of her 
voice that told me that she had done what she thought 
was right. I did not feel equal to the task of convincing 
her that she was wrong.” 

Mahlon Spellman habitually increased his height by 
rising on his tiptoes; in extremes he increased it further 
by running his fingers through his hair to stand it on end. 
He metaphorically relegated the whole race of Susannas 
to limbo by flipping wholly imaginary particles from his 
sleeves and wiping imaginary taint from immaculate 
fingers with an equally immaculate handkerchief. From 
this elevation and mental attitude, Mahlon glared accus¬ 
ingly at his wife. This was rather unusual; but the thing 
had occurred with sufficient frequency for Elizabeth to 
recognize its portent. 

“I am constrained to admit,” she said deliberately, 
“that there are times, very rare times, when Mahala’s 
mentality so resembles yours that I am forced to confess 
myself unequal to the strain of controlling her. At such 
times I always have made a practice of sending her to you. 
Your superior judgment, your poise, and strength, will 


58 THE WHITE FLAG 

stand your child in good stead at such a time as the 
present. ” 

Thereupon Elizabeth courtesied low to her self-ordained 
lord and master and swept from the room, leaving him a 
defenseless, a flabbergasted man. In his soul Mahlon 
knew that he was no more capable of controlling Mahala 
when she was in that mental attitude which her mother 
sometimes described as “having her head set,” than was 
his wife. With hurried steps he began pacing the room. 
By the time Mahala entered, he was walking in nervous, 
flatfooted indecision; he had lost all height obtained by 
any subterfuge. He faced Mahala, and if his wife had 
been there to observe the interview, she would have 
been rejoiced to realize that Mahala was tiptoeing, while 
her father was on his soles. All the lofty attitude he had 
assumed with Elizabeth, vanished like river mist before 
an hour of compelling sunshine. Mr. Spellman was so 
undone that he nearly stuttered. 

“Wh—wdiat’s this your mother tells me about this dis¬ 
gusting Susanna business?” he asked as Mahala stood 
slim and straight before him. 

Her lips were curved in their very sweetest smile, but 
far back in the depths of her eyes there was a cold gray 
light that Mahlon Spellman did not recall ever having 
seen there before. He realized with a severe mental 
shock exactly what his wife had meant when she said that 
there were times when she did not force matters with 
Mahala. 

But it was the girl’s lips that were speaking, and the 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 


59 


lips were sweetly saying: “How right you are, Papa! 
Isn’t it disgusting and absurd, in a town where there is as 
much money and as many comfortable people as there are 
in this town, that any child should be started to school 
so thinly clad that her teeth are chattering and her hands 
blue and stiff?” 

Mahlon tried to recover some least degree of his lost 
attitude. 

“That girl’s father never did an honest day’s work in 
his life.” 

He tried to thunder it; he did succeed in making it im¬ 
pressive. 

“That’s exactly the truth,” agreed Mahala instantly. 
“He never did, he never will. That’s the reason why 
every one should make a point of seeing that Susanna 
has warm and comfortable clothing until she can get 
enough education so that she will be able to teach or do 
something that will help out her mother and her little 
brothers and sisters. I was just coming to you about it 
when Mother came to my room to suggest that I talk it 
over with you. I want you to tell about Susanna at the 
next board meeting of the church. I want you to tell 
those people plainly how narrow-minded and how selfish 
they are and what a disgrace it is to the whole town to 
have a member of their church trying to go to high school 
so thinly clad that she is stiff and blue—and she is one of 
the very best scholars in our class, too. Mind, I have to 
study good and hard to keep ahead of her and once or 
twice, I wouldn’t have had my problems if she had not 



6o 


THE WHITE FLAG 

held up her slate and let me see how to begin a solution. 
I owe her that petticoat all right, Father.” 

Mahlon Spellman stood very still. He wanted to say 
something scathing. He had intended to be extremely 
severe about his daughter doing such an unprecedented 
thing as to remove her petticoat on the street. He wanted 
to tell her that she should be ashamed to accept help from 
anything so low down in the social world as a Susanna. 
But some way, memory performed a kaleidoscopic jump, 
so that he saw himself in crucial moments looking 
anxiously toward the slate of some of his fellow pupils. 
Then it struck Mahlon like a blow that he never, in his 
life before, had admitted even to himself that he had done 
this; but Mahala was facing him with perfectly frank eyes, 
acknowledging her obligations. 

What he said was not in the very least what he had con¬ 
templated saying. 

“The next time you feel that you owe any one a petti¬ 
coat, come and tell me ,” he said. “There are some suit¬ 
able ones of heavy stamped felt in dark colours that many 
of the girls of Susanna’s age and size are wearing. It is 
scarcely fair to your mother that hours of painstaking 
work she has spent upon you, in an effort to express her 
love for you, should be discarded by you without a thought 
of her.” 

Mahala’s eager face showed deep concentration. 

“If that’s the way you and Mama feel about it, Papa,” 
she said quietly, “I’ll pay for one of the felt skirts from 
my monthly allowance, and I’ll go to-morrow and ask 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 


61 


Susanna to accept it instead of Mother’s beautiful work. 
Certainly I didn’t intend to hurt Mother’s feelings or 
yours.” 

Now this was precisely the thing that Mahlon Spellman 
had determined that Mahala should do, yet when she, 
herself, proposed making that trip, it touched his egotism 
from an entirely different point of view. He felt soiled 
and contaminated, even at the thought of such a thing, 
when he really came to picture his daughter, bone of his 
bone, flesh of his flesh, as being placed in such a humiliat¬ 
ing position. 

“You will do nothing of the kind,” he said grandilo¬ 
quently. 

The strain on his tiptoes was crucial, the gesture that 
ran through his flattened hair raised it beautifully. 

“You must learn to think before you do a thing in this 
world,” he admonished Mahala. “I should consider it 
distinctly humiliating to me, to have a daughter of mine 
go and ask to be given back a gift that she had seen fit 
to make. Since Susanna has the petticoat, she must keep 
it. Simply fix in your consciousness the idea that the 
next time my daughter is not to be like the foolish little 
grasshopper that refused to look before it leaped, and so 
found itself in trouble.” 

There was a bewildered look in Mahala’s eyes. Her 
teeth were set rather hard on her under lip. 1 he breath 
she drew was deep. She turned from her father and laid 
her hand upon the door. 

Then she faced him again: “I think,” she said quietly, 


62 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“that it would save Susanna’s pride as well as ours if you 
didn’t take this matter up with the church board. She’s 
as old as I am; she probably would feel as keenly as I 
should about it. She didn’t want to take the petticoat; 
I made her do it. But she really needed it, Father, she 
truly needed it awfully. And she needs a great many 
other things just as badly. Don’t bring me anything the 
next time you go to the city, but let me come after school 
to-morrow and give me the clothing that will make Su¬ 
sanna comfortable. Will you, dear?” 

When Mahala said, “Will you, dear?” there was not a 
thing on earth that Mahlon Spellman would not have 
undertaken to do for her, because it would have broken 
his heart to admit to her that there was anything on 
earth that he could not do for her if he chose. 

“Certainly,” he said suavely. “Most certainly!” 

That night, in the privacy of their bed chamber, Mahlon 
told Elizabeth that it was the easiest thing in the world to 
manage Mahala; when he had put the matter to her in 
the proper light, she had immediately offered to go and 
recover the petticoat, but he had felt that it was beneath 
their dignity to allow her to ask to be given back a gift. 
It might look as if they were in straitened circumstances, 
or as if they could not trust their daughter to do wdiat was 
right and proper upon any given occasion. He told his 
wife, also, that he had arranged with Mahala to come to 
him after school the following day and he would secretly 
provide Susanna with comfortable clothing so that she 
night continue with her school work. 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 63 

Elizabeth immediately fell upon his neck and kissed him. 
She told him that he was the most wonderful, the most 
generous of men. Mahlon expanded with her appreciation 
until he slept that night with a beatific smile illumining 
his face. He never felt more thoroughly that he had 
justified himself to himself and to Elizabeth than he did 
in the matter of Susanna and the Spellman petticoat, while 
he could trust the clerks in his store, through a few words 
he could drop, to let his townsmen know of his essential 
rightness and benevolence. 

Because of many diverse ramifications in Mahala’s life 
similar to the petticoat affair, she always had been made 

4 

to feel that she had the devoted love of every boy and girl 
in each advancing grade of her school work. Her teachers 
always depended upon her to tell them the truth concern¬ 
ing any occasion in the schoolroom otherwise inexplain- 
able. 

Mahala’s mother had told her that she might invite her 
particular friends for the celebration of her birthday, so 
Mahala was busy delivering the invitations. She was also 
extremely busy facing a very uncomfortable condition. 
There was no one in the room who was not her friend so 
far as she knew. There was no one to whom she had not 
been lovely and gracious. There was no one who did not 
think her beautiful, who was not proud to be seen in 
proximity to her. But Mahala very well understood that 
her father and mother would not want to entertain in 
their home the Susannas of the town and neither would 
they wish to entertain the Jasons. That, she knew, was 


64 THE WHITE FLAG 

an utter impossibility, and yet, in her heart, she distinctly 
rebelled. 

Jason always had been the best scholar in any grade to 
which he had advanced but Mahala knew that she dared 
not ask him to be her guest. She watched his lean figure 
as he crossed the playground. He would go to the well, 
take a drink of water, stretch up his arms toward heaven 
as if he were imploring that the gift of equality with the 
other children should be dropped into his hands. He 
would cast a slow glance of longing at the boys playing 
ball and leap-frog, then he would reenter the building, 
go to his desk and spend ten minutes on his next lesson, 
while the other pupils were playing. 

She never had known him to practise an evasion. She 
never had known him, no matter how hard pressed, to 
do an unkind thing or to tell a lie. Sometimes, when un¬ 
observed she looked at him between narrowed lids, there 
came a feeling that, as he grew older and his lean frame 
filled out and became better clothed and his face took on 
maturity, he would be a pleasing figure physically. She 
dared not invite him to come to her party. Yet that imp ' 
of perversity that had always lived in the back of Mahala’s 
head and found dancing ground on the platform of her 
heart, possessed her strongly at that minute. 

She managed to pass near him, while as she did so, she 
said in a low voice: “I am asking my friends to come to 
my birthday party this week and I wish that I might in¬ 
vite you.” 

Jason stood very still; his eyes were on the ground. He 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 65 

dared not trust himself to look at the girl beside him. He 
was only a boy, but Marcia’s harsh tongue had taught 
him many things. He realized Mahala’s position in¬ 
stantly. 

“Thank you,” he said in a voice as lifeless as if he were 
struggling with a contrary equation. “Of course, I 
couldn’t come, but it’s good of you to want me.” 

Then he passed her and went up to the schoolroom. 
Taking out his books, he studied with a deeper concentra¬ 
tion than he ever before had used. He had a new incen¬ 
tive. 

Mahala drew a breath of relief. She had made Jason 
feel that she had thought of him, that if she could do as 
she liked, she would ask him to her party. Having cleared 
her conscience by placing the burden upon it on her par¬ 
ents where she knew it belonged, she turned her attention 
to the handsomest face and figure on the playground. 
She studied Junior Moreland carefully. Every year his 
father saw to it that he wore better and more expensive 
clothing. Every year made him increasingly handsome 
in face and figure; and yet, as Mahala studied him in¬ 
tently, she could see faint signs of coarseness creeping into 
his boyish face. The hollows beneath his eyes were too 
dark for a schoolboy. He carried himself with too great 
surety. His air was that of complete sophistication. 
What was there worth knowing that he did not know? 
Mahala resented the fact that Junior never approached 
her without the assumption that every one else should get 
out of his way. Day after day, as she watched him, the 


66 


THE WHITE FLAG 

leader of every sport and amusement, she recalled how he 
often evaded the truth, how he twisted everything to his 
own advantage, how cruelly ruthless he was concerning 
their classmates who were in moderate or poor circum¬ 
stances. He always tried to give the impression that 
she was his property, that none of the other girls and 
boys must pass a certain point in their intercourse with 

her. 

There were times when her bright eyes watched him 
above the top of her Ancient History or Physical Geog¬ 
raphy and then turned to the background, where, hollow 
chested, hollow eyed, beaten and defeated, Jason sat 
rumpling his hair and plunging into his books. And some¬ 
times, when he lifted his eyes and she met his glance, he 
gave her the feeling that he was a hungry dog that knew 
he had the strength to capture the bone, but from bitter 
experience, also knew that it was not worth while to 
make the fight, because superior power would intervene 
and take it away from him. 

On the day of Mahala’s birthday party, in the midst 
of the bustle of cleaning, merely from force of habit, that 
which was clean, of decorating that which was already 
over-decorated, a dray stopped before the Spellman resi¬ 
dence to deliver an expensive piano lamp, the attached 
card bearing birthday greetings from Martin Moreland, 
Jr., to Miss Mahala Spellman. 

When Mahlon Spellman stepped into his parlour that 
night, the first thing that attracted his attention was this 
lamp. He went over and examined it critically; then he 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 67 

turned a face white with anger toward Elizabeth, who 
stood hesitant in the doorway. He was horrified at the 
extravagance of such a gift between children. 

“Why did you allow this thing to be left here?” he de¬ 
manded. “Why did you not return it immediately? 
You know that it is not suitable that a gift of such ex¬ 
travagance should be permitted between mere children. 
It must go back!” 

“Yes, that is what I think,” said Elizabeth. 

“Of course, that is what you think,” said Mr. Spellman. 
“That comes from being a sensible woman. There is 
nothing else you could think. I strenuously object to hav¬ 
ing Martin Moreland furnish my house for me. A piano 
lamp! A piano lamp! Why didn’t he get the piano and 
let me get the lamp?” 

He leaned toward Elizabeth and thrust out his right 
hand as if he expected her to make an answer that would 
materialize so that he could pick it up and kick it through 
the door on the toe of his boot. 

“Have you any idea,” he shouted, “what that thing 
cost?” 

“Yes,” said Elizabeth quietly. “I heard Mahala say 
that she would like a piano lamp, so I looked at this same 
one yesterday, but I thought the price was out of all rea¬ 
son. They were asking thirty-five dollars for it.” 

Mahlon arose to the height of the price. He paced the 
room, talking and gesticulating. 

“I won’t have it!” he cried. “I won’t countenance it! 
Why, in order to keep even, the next time Junior has a 


68 THE WHITE FLAG 

birthday, I’ll be expected to help furnish Martin More¬ 
land’s house. I am not in the furniture business. 

Mahlon arranged his cuffs and took a firm stand on 
widely spread feet; rocking thereon, he glared at his wife. 

“Of course, dear,” she said soothingly, it shall be ex¬ 
actly as you say. The Morelands are always obtrusive 
and vulgar; but I thought that perhaps, on account of 
your business relations with Mr. Moreland, he might be 
trying to express his appreciation of you, and your 
patronage of his bank, and your influence in helping him 
with other enterprises.” 

Slowly Mahlon’s lower jaw dropped on its moorings. 
A look of astonishment crept into his eyes. 

“You mean,” he said, “that you think the banker is 
using this opportunity to pay me a handsome compli¬ 
ment?” 

“Why, it looks that way to me,” said Elizabeth. “It 
is the only feasible thing I could think of. There is no 
reason why the Morelands should spend such an appalling 
amount of money on Mahala. There must be some favour 
that Mr. Moreland wants of you, or some reason why he is 
anxious to keep your good will. You know, dear, that 
the one thing in all this world that Martin bitterly envies 
you is your popularity, the high regard in which you are 
held in this community. To make himself appreciated by 
his fellow citizens as they appreciate you, would please 
him far more than money.” 

“Uh-huh,” said Mr. Spellman. “I see your point. I 
think, as usual, that you are quite right. I never com- 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 69 

plimented myself so highly as I did in the selection of a 
partner for life. Undoubtedly you have arrived at the 
correct solution. We shall be forced to keep the lamp; 
while the next time Junior Moreland has a birthday, we 
shall utilize the opportunity to show the Morelands some¬ 
thing about proper giving/’ 

“Naturally!” said Elizabeth Spellman. “Naturally, 
you would want to do that. Now go and dress yourself in 
order that you may be ready to help me receive and enter¬ 
tain the children.” 

There was a small spot of deep red glowing on each of 
Elizabeth Spellman’s cheek bones. She loved to give 
parties for Mahala or for herself and Mahlon, but she was 
compelled to admit that they were a strain. With her a 
party began, weeks before the actual day of entertainment 
in general house cleaning, fresh laundering of curtains, 
fine dressing for beds and snowy table linens and napkins. 
Lavish and delicious refreshments must be prepared; 
clothing was a matter of immediate and intense concern. 

For Mahala’s birthday each of them must have a new 
dress. No hands but those of Elizabeth were sufficiently 
dainty and painstaking to make them, so that weeks of 
hemming fine ruffles, of whipping on lace, of setting inser¬ 
tion, of placing bows and looping draperies were necessary. 
For this particular birthday Elizabeth had done an un¬ 
precedented thing. She had accidentally clothed her small 
daughter in a combination purely French. The gold of 
the girl’s hair was nearly the same shade as the tarlatan 
she had selected for her party dress. She had ruffled and 


THE WHITE FLAG 


70 

trimmed it to the crest of the prevailing mode. She had 
combined with it little running wreaths of leaves that were 
exactly the blue of Mahala’s eyes, yet they turned to silver 
in oblique light rays. Finally, she had smashed on to it 
here and there, exactly as a French modiste would have 
done, big, soft bows of black velvet ribbon. A pair of 
black velvet shoes with the toes brightly embroidered with 
blue daisies, brought to Mahala by her father on his return 
from a recent trip to New York, had probably suggested 
the bows and had been saved for the party, while a 
wreath of the blue leaves had been kept to bind down the 
silky curls hanging free, so that Mahala, thus attired, was 
probably as beautiful a picture as could be made with a 
child of her age. 

The night of her party she stood beside her father and 
mother, quite as composed, as much at ease, as they, till 
the last of her guests had arrived. She was watching her 
mother carefully as certain faces appeared in the doorway. 
When Mrs. Spellman’s lips narrowed and Mr. Spellman’s 
eyebrows arose, Mahala made a point of darting out of 
line and offering both hands. She doubled in warmth her 
welcome for every child that she knew would receive only 
half a welcome on the part of her father and mother. 
There was always a guilty feeling in her heart when she 
invited certain children she knew were not wanted, not 
welcome in her home. She realized that the day was 
going to come speedily when her mother would say: “You 
may invite so many guests and not one more.” On that 
uncomfortable day she would be forced to make a deci- 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 


7i 


sion. The decision she would make would not be pleas¬ 
ing to her father and mother. To-night she thought 
fleetingly, merely realizing that there was a day of conflict 
coming. 

On the arrival of the last guest, the games began. 
First they played “Who's Got the Button?” Then they 
advanced to “London Bridge” and “Drop the Handker¬ 
chief.” All her guests thought it the proper thing to hon¬ 
our Mahala, and she had sped around the circle until she 
was weary. Mahala was given to precedents. She 
established one. She dropped the handkerchief behind 
Edith Williams. Glad of an excuse to get into the game, 
Edith snatched it up and ran. Junior saw and had a pre¬ 
sentiment. Edith raced past him with intentions, but 
two things frustrated her. In her excitement her aim was 
poor and Junior cunningly side-stepped, dragging Sammy 
Davis with him. When the children shouted : Junior, 
run!” Junior turned a deliberate head and refused to 
budge. All could see that the kerchief was behind 
Sammy. Sammy, delighted at the favour of the little 
rich girl, caught up the handkerchief and sped after Edith, 
only to find her in tears of rage and to get a well-aimed slap 
when he caught and tried to kiss her. The boys shouted, 
the girls “Oh-ed”—Mrs. Spellman raised her brows and 
cautioned behind an archly shaken finger: “Now! now! 
Little ladies! Re-mem-ber!” What all of the children 
always remembered was that Edith had chosen Junior and 
that he had evaded her. Someway her discomfort con¬ 
soled the others. She was rich; she was Mahala’s best 


72 THE WHITE FLAG 

friend. She had lost her temper and been rude, and Mrs. 
Spellman had chided her. In their hearts most of them 
felt a little less unhappy than they had been; a trifle less 
constrained. 

It is very probable that Mahala was the only child at 
her party who was completely happy. Every pleasure 
she ever had enjoyed in her life she had experienced under 
the watchful eyes of her father and mother. She was ac¬ 
customed to their constant restrictions, their persistent 
precautions: “Be careful of your dress/’ “Don’t shake out 
your curls,” “Don’t damage the furniture,” “Don’t touch 
the lace curtains.” 

Her heart was so full of spontaneous enthusiasm, her 
body was so healthy, her brain was such a blessing, that 
all these millions of “don’ts” had left no mark upon her. 
Spontaneously as breathing, she answered: “Yes, Mama,” 
“I’ll be careful, Papa,” “Yes, thank you!”—and went 
straight ahead with her pleasure. 

The other children followed her lead, but they were awk¬ 
ward, their movements were stilted and perfunctory. 
They were afraid of the lady of dainty precision whose 
quick eyes were following their eveiy movement in the ex¬ 
pectation that they would do some damage. They were 
afraid of the wealthy dry-goods merchant, who was so 
punctilious in his courtesies, so immaculate in his dress, 
so self-contained in his personality. To them, the party 
did not mean really to throw off restraint and to have a 
natural, healthful, childish evening; it meant to get 
through with whatever was to be done in such a creditable 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 73 

manner that they would not be subjected to constantly 
whispered admonitions of “don’t” and “be careful.” 

With the handkerchief dropped behind Mahala and 
Junior Moreland speeding around the circle, the doorbell 
rang its shrill peal. 

Mahlon looked inquiringly at Elizabeth; Elizabeth 
looked inquiringly at Mahala. Elizabeth’s hospitality 
had been strained to the utmost extent. Half a dozen 
children she had not expected were present. She had 
meant to be lavish, but she was worried in the back of her 
head for fear the ice cream and cake and pressed chicken 
would not hold out. 

Mahala smiled reassuringly at her mother. 

It s some one to see Papa on business,” she said. 
“Every one I invited is here.” 

Mahlon immediately remembered all the offices that he 
was accustomed to perform when he was destined to be¬ 
come, for an instant, the impelling object in the retina of 
one of his fellow men. The ceremony began with his hair, 
over which he ran his hands; it proceeded to his tie, which 
he felt to learn if it had the proper set; and slid down his 
vest ending with a little jerk at the points; then each hand 
busied itself with the cuff encircling the other wrist; while 
his eyes travelled rapidly over his sleeves, down his trouser 
legs, to the toes of his boots, which might well have re¬ 
flected his entire person had there been proper lighting. 
Then Mr. Spellman, conceiving that the Morelands might 
have called to see how their lamp appeared beside his piano, 
with Napoleonic air, advanced to his front door, throwing 


THE WHITE FLAG 


74 

it wide open. His wife forgot herself sufficiently to follow 
the few steps that would give her anxiety the easement of 
an unobstructed view. Mahala, quaking in her small 
heart for fear she had asked some one more, so that the 
ring might presage another unwelcome Susanna, followed 
frankly. 

From his elevation, Mr. Spellman saw the catalpa trees 
and the evergreens decorating the front yard on a level 
with his eyes. It was with an inarticulate cry of delight 
that Mahala darted past him to pick up a little gold cage 
on a perch of which a bird as yellow as sunshine burst into 
song when the light from the doorway streamed on him, 
giving the impression of sunrise. Holding the cage out¬ 
stretched in both hands, Mahala advanced to her mother. 
The bird trilled and warbled exquisitely. The child was 
entranced. 

“Read the card, Mother! See if it is for me,” she cried 
excitedly. 

The card read, “To Mahala on her birthday, from a 
friend.” 

Elizabeth stared at Mahala; Mahlon stared at Mahala, 
and then at Elizabeth, and again at Mahala. Mahala 
wrapped her arms around the cage and laid her head 
against it and danced a lively waltz around the room 
crooning: “Oh, you lovely little gold bird! You lovely 
little gold bird! You are mine! You are mine! Oh, I 
never had anything half so wonderful!” 

She set the cage upon the piano, stretched her arms 
around it, laid her face against it, and looked up at her 



THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 7S 

mother, her big, wide-open eyes demanding love, sym- 
pathy, comprehension. 

Elizabeth Spellman's face was a study; but Mahlon's 

was a problem. He opened his lips, but his daughter fore¬ 
stalled him. 

I just know that this lovely surprise is from you, 

Papa, she said. “Nobody ever can think of the won¬ 
derful things that you do." 

Then she stopped, because she realized that her father's 
face was blank, even forbidding. The gift was not from 
him. She turned to her mother, her lips still parted, and 
met a duplicate of her father's expression. Then her 
eyes ran around the room in quick question to which there 
was not even the hint of an answer. And then, in her 
bewilderment and with the swiftness of thought, for one 
instant her face turned full to the window beside the 
piano which opened on the side lawn, while her sharp 
eyes thought they saw' a fleeting glimpse of a face among 
the branches of a tree. Deliberately, she placed a hand 
on each side of the cage and again laid her face against 
the wires as near to the little gold bird as possible. Then 
she smiled a smile that would have been very becoming 
to any conceivable kind of angel, and her lips began 
chanting happily: “Oh, you darling little bird! I love 
you. You are the most beautiful gift I ever have had in 
my whole life." 

Junior Moreland began to sulk from the instant Ma- 
hala appeared with the bird. Every one of her guests 
ha<i brought her a gift, some of them expensive and at- 


76 


THE WHITE FLAG 

tractive, some of them clumsily made kerchiefs and pin¬ 
cushions. To all of them she had given warm welcome 
and appreciation; but all of them put together had not 
equalled the magnificence of Junior’s lamp at which the 
other girls had looked enviously, and which the other 
boys had hated cordially. Now, out of the night, there 
had come a bird of gold and Mahala had said that it was 
the most beautiful gift she ever had received. 

All his life Junior had considered himself first. He was 
considering himself now. He felt abused and defrauded. 
He sneered openly. He said to Mrs. Spellman: “Are you 
going to let her keep such a dirty, messy thing as a bird 
in this elegant house?” 

Mrs. Spellman hesitated. She was repeating “ele¬ 
gant” in her heart. As words go, she thought it the most 
wonderful she had ever heard from a young person. It 
was the joy of her life to be a perfect wife to Mahlon, to 
be a perfect pattern to her neighbours, but every year of 
her life made her task more difficult. The most difficult 
thing of all was the third task, which tried her more than 
either of the others—to be a perfect mother to Mahala, 
Pride might soar to undue heights where it concerned her 
husband or prestige; but the love of her small daughter 
cut to the very depths of her heart. Mahala was delighted 
over the bird. That was easy to be seen. But Junior 
Moreland was the son of the rich banker. He was a 
handsome lad. He always had been devoted to Mahala, 
and while there were things about him of which Mrs. 
Spellman did not approve, she had the feeling that under 


THE GIFTS OF LIGHT AND SONG 77 

her influence, in combination with life with Mahala, 
Junior might develop into a man greatly to be desired. 
How very seldom did it happen that such a face and 
figure as his were combined with great wealth. Junior 
was an only child. If the sinister kind of power that made 
his father the figure he was in the little town, extended to 
the boy, Junior also would have great power—the power 
of riches—and how clever he was in the selection of the 
right word! 

Mrs. Spellman smiled at the lad. He was the son of the 
rich banker. 

“You know,” she said evenly, “I’ve no idea who has 
sent this little bird to Mahala. There are several women 
in the town who raise canaries for sale. It’s an inexpen¬ 
sive gift. Maybe it comes from some one Mahala has 
helped. She is always trying to do kind things to people, 
as is very proper that a girl in her position should. Per¬ 
haps, by morning, we shall be able to think who sent the 
birdie, and then we shall decide what to do about it.” 


CHAPTER III 


An Inquisition According to Mahlon 

W HEN the other children began making prepara¬ 
tions to go home, Elizabeth Spellman whispered 
to Junior to wait. After the last one had dis¬ 
appeared, she went to the kitchen and returned with a 
plate piled high with remaining refreshments, a heaped 
dish of ice cream and a generous big piece of cake. 

Junior was not particularly grateful. There had been set 
before him, all his life, more excellent food than his stom¬ 
ach could hold. The delicacies that would have been a 
great treat to any of the other boys, were no particular 
treat to Junior; while he was sufficiently his father’s son 
to allow the Spellmans to see that he was not deeply im¬ 
pressed. He picked over the food in a listless manner 
and ate very little either of the cream or the cake. In 
truth, he was sorely surprised and disappointed over the in¬ 
trusion of the little gold bird on an occasion when he had 
reckoned on carrying off the honours with greater ease 
than usual. He was slightly older than Mahala and his 
brain was working with undue rapidity. He knew every 
one in Ashwater whom he chose to know—where had he 
seen birds being raised? In those days linnet and canary 
culture was extremely common. Almost every one had 

78 


AN INQUISITION 79 

the tiny domestic singers in their homes. Brooding about 
the bird made him cross and sullen as he always was when 
he was thwarted. 

Watching her mother’s efforts to placate Junior, Mahala 
did some rapid thinking on her own part. She decided 
that if he left the house feeling better, there would be fewer 
objections on the part of her parents to her keeping the 
bird. She followed Junior to the hall door, then stepped 
on the veranda with him, where she stood for an instant in 
the moonlight. 

The night was October at its most luring period. 
Natural conditions, not Junior, were responsible for the 
fact that she went down the front steps beside him, swung 
open the gate herself, then stood back that he might step 
through. As she closed it, she paused a moment longer, 
looking around her. The lure of the night air, of gaudy 
foliage wonderful in the white light, was upon her. 

She said to Junior: “Did you ever see a more entrancing 
night?” 

But Junior leaned across the gate, caught her by the 
shoulders, and roughly demanded: “Which of the fellows 
sent that bird to you?” 

Mahala’s lithe body straightened under his fingers. 
She had been carefully bred all her life; she thoroughly 
understood that her parents expected her not to antago¬ 
nize Junior. 

So she said, very simply: “I don’t know. Some friend 
of Father or Mother, maybe.” 

Junior’s hands gripped tighter. Suddenly he was saying 


8 o 


THE WHITE FLAG 


in a hoarse voice that sounded as if he were going to cry 
very shortly: “I want you to understand that you are 
my girl, and when we finish school, we are going to be 
married!” 

Mahala attempted to draw back, crying: “No! No, 
Junior! What foolishness! We are nothing but chil¬ 
dren.” 

But Junior tightened his grasp, and drawing her toward 
him, he leaned over and kissed her. 

At that instant Mahlon Spellman appeared in his door¬ 
way. He was in time to glimpse a flying missile that came 
hurtling through the air, striking Junior a hard blow on 
the side of the head, knocking him down. He heard 
Mahala’s shrill scream and saw her throw open the gate 
to kneel beside the boy. He paused long enough to call 
his wife, then rushed to help Junior to his feet. 

The boy was half dazed. His head was cut and bleed¬ 
ing. As he recovered from the shock of the blow, he grew 
wild with rage and excitement. Mahala hurried to the 
kitchen to summon Jemima Davis and for a few minutes 
all of them were rushing through the house for water, 
bandages, camphor, and first aids. Mahala, standing be¬ 
side the couch upon which he was lying, watched her 
mother's deft fingers exploring his temple. A rush of 
colour stained her white face when the verdict came: “It 
is nothing but a very bad bruise." 

Instantly her head lifted and tilted in one of the bird¬ 
like movements familiar with her from childhood. Her 
mother was fully occupied; her father was chafing Junior’s 


AN INQUISITION 81 

hands, trying to quiet him. Jemima was holding the 
basin in which Mrs. Spellman was dipping cloths to 
staunch the blood and cleanse the wound. To all of them 
in general Mahala announced: “I will bring some dry 
towels,” as she slipped from the room. 

She ran to the kitchen where she made a quick survey of 
everything. Then she caught up a box standing on a 
table and hastily, with flying fingers, she packed into it 
biscuit, slices of pressed chicken, pieces of cake—every¬ 
thing she could snatch from the remains of the lunch 
that had been served her guests. Then she darted from 
the back door, down the steps, and made her way among 
the shrubbery screening the side parlour window. 

“Jason!” she breathed softly. “Jason!” 

At once the bushes parted and Jason stood by her side. 
She thrust the box into his hands. 

Her face was very near to his in order that he might hear 
her breathless whisper: “Can they ever find out where that 
bird came from?” 

Jason’s voice was dry and breathless, too, as he answered : 
“They never can. It didn’t come from this town.” 

“Run!” urged Mahala. “The minute Junior feels 
better Father will be searching the shrubbery and the 
neighbourhood. Run!” 

Then she was gone. 

Jason stood still, holding the box. His heart was 
pounding until he had to grip tight to keep from dropping 
his gift. He could still feel her breath on his cheek. He 
could hear the shaken voice. In his nostrils was the odour 



82 


THE WHITE FLAG 

of her nearness, of food that she had thrust into his hands. 
All this was a miracle straight from heaven, but there was 
a greater far—an overwhelmingly greater. She had not 
said one word of condemnation; she had neither chided 
nor reproached him. 

Jason raised his head and tested his shoulders. Grip¬ 
ping the box carefully, he went down the Spellman back 
walk, through the gate, and then he entered a gate op¬ 
posite, and skirting a house, came out on the adjoining side 
of the block. From there on, with no particular haste, he 
made his way home. 

It would be closer truth to state that his feet made 
tiieir way home; his brain knew very little about where he 
was going or why. He had given Mahala a gift. He had 
seen it m her arms. He had heard her voice crying out 
before every one that she loved it. He had punished 
Junior Moreland s rudeness and roughness. She had 
known that he had done it, and she had not even men¬ 
tioned the fact that she knew. 

When he reached home, Jason sat on the back steps in 
the beneficence of the October moon, and with the box on 
his knees, stared up at the sky. He was trying, with all 
his might, to understand what had happened, and how it 
had happened, and why. There had been no time to 
think. From the branches of a maple tree he had watched 
the progress of Mahala’s party, even as he had watched 
hundreds of other parties from trees and bushes, all his 
lonely, neglected childhood. He had seen Mahala’s trip 
to the gate with Junior. He had heard what they said; 


AN INQUISITION 83 

had seen Junior s rude act. He had had no time to think; 
he had followed an animal impulse. Of all the town 
Mahala was the one creature in woman’s form who had 
been truly kind to him, who had tried to make him feel 
that he was not an outcast, who had put into his heart the 
thought, that if he would culture himself and do what 
was right, he might have an equal chance with other men 
when he grew up. When she was offended and had cried 
out, Jason had bridged space with a piece of brick 
wrenched from the wall of a flower bed beside which he had 
landed as he slid from the tree. When he saw Junior fall, 
he had been paralysed. He had not known but that he 
must go in the house and admit that he had killed him, 
until Mahala stood near offering him food, urging his flight 
to safety. 

Jason studied the moon critically. He had never before 
realized that it was so big, that it seemed so close, that with 
his unassisted eyes he could trace the conformations upon 
it. Then he told the moon his secret. 

“When she has time to study this over, she will think I 
am a coward to have thrown the brick. I should have 
overtaken him and beaten him with my fists.” 

Sick with shame and humiliation, Jason pondered 
deeply on the subject and made his high resolve. Here¬ 
after, he would not be afraid. Hereafter, he would not be 
ashamed. He would do the level best that was in his 
power and some day, in some way, there would be a turn¬ 
ing. Things would come right for him. 

Resolves are wonderful. They brace mentality and 


THE WHITE FLAG 


84 

the physical being as well. The odour of tempting food 
persisted, and still watching the moon, listening to the 
sounds of night, surrounded by the silver silence lightly 
flecked by the softly dropping gold and red leaves, Jason 
had his first experience with really delicious food, delicately 
prepared. 

When he had finished the last crumb, he carried the 
box to the small, ramshackle woodhouse beside the back 
walk and dropped it behind a pile of split wood. Then 
he softly opened the back door and started to climb the 
stairs. Marcia’s voice stopped him. 

“Jason,” she called through the darkness, “what made 
you so late?” 

Jason stood still an instant, then he answered her: “I 
helped Peter Potter in the grocery for a while. Tve laid 
the money I earned on the kitchen table for you.” He 
hesitated an instant longer before he added: “And then, 
for a little while, I w r atched a party through a window.” 

He stood still, waiting, but as there was no comment, 
he climbed the stairs and sat down on the side of his old 
bed. Through the open window he began another review 
of what had happened, thinking things out in clearer 
detail, reasoning, studying, planning, and in his heart— 
hoping. He tried to picture what was going on in the 
Spellman home at that minute. He had a vision of Junior, 
cleansed and bandaged, making his way home in the white 
heat of anger. 

But his vision was not nearly adequate. Junior was so 
dizzy that he could not stand, even when he tried bravely. 


AN INQUISITION 85 

Preceded by Jemima carrying a lantern, Mahlon Spellman 
entered his barn and harnessed his horse. If Mahlon 
had been asked to describe his feelings, he would have an¬ 
nounced that he was outraged. He hated blood; he had 
hated it all his life. It was one of the things that he had 
given the widest berth possible. To-night he had been 
forced to come into actual contact with it. He hated 
mystery as badly as he hated blood, and who had sent 
that wonderful little bird that sang its way across his 
threshold and won his daughter’s affections so easily, was 
a mystery. Really, it probably had been the cause of the 
whole trouble, and certainly it was sufficient trouble that 
a man of his position, of his dignity, should be forced at 
ten o clock at night, an ungodly hour, to enter his stable 
to harness a horse. He had not dared take the time to 
change his clothing, and if there was anything on earth 
Mahlon hated worse than any other thing that could 
happen to clothing, it was stepping into a stable in the 
shoes and suit that he wore upon the streets. But he 
was afraid to wait to make the change for fear that Junior 
would realize what he was doing, while he was almost sick 
with fear that the boy might be seriously hurt. Even if 
Elizabeth could feel no yielding bones, no ragged seam, 
that was no guarantee that there might not be ruptured 
blood vessels or a clot forming inside the skull. 

With shaking fingers Mahlon got the abominable har¬ 
ness upon the abomination of a horse and led it to the front 
door; and there, helped in by Jemima and Mrs. Spellman, 
Junior leaned against the carriage seat, which there was 


86 


THE WHITE FLAG 

every probability he would stain and disfigure, and was 
driven home. 

With shaking fingers Mahlon tied the horse at the More¬ 
land hitching post. With wavering legs he travelled the 
length of the walk and rang the doorbell. He could see 
through the lighted windows that the Morelands had not 
yet retired. He wondered why they were up so late when 
they were not having a party; and he wondered what he 
was going to say, and he wondered how he was going to 
say it. He had no idea what Junior would tell his parents. 
He had a very clear idea that he wanted them told nothing 
that would be detrimental to his standing with them. 
Too frequently he needed the accommodations of the 
banker when he bought heavy consignments of dry goods 
in the East; often he needed ready money when he specu¬ 
lated on bits of delinquent land or town properties that he 
thought a bargain. 

Martin Moreland opened his front door. He and 
Mahlon Spellman had been boys together in the same 
village. They knew each other thoroughly, but they were 
not particularly well acquainted. Mahlon Spellman had 
been a boy as fastidious as the man he became later, while 
Martin Moreland had been the same kind of boy that 
developed the man he now was. There always had been 
sufficient reason why neither of them swam in the same 
bend of the river or climbed the same trees to gather nuts. 
Mahlon had done precious little of either. 

Each man in his own way thought himself the great 
man of Ashwater. Each in his own way would have been 


AN INQUISITION 87 

better pleased to have witnessed the downfall of the other 
than anything else that could have happened on earth. 
For this reason, they were always particularly courteous 
to each other, always giving the impression in public that 
they were friends. 

Seeing Mr. Spellman standing, white and shaken at 
his door, produced a throb of primitive joy in the heart of 
Martin Moreland. Perhaps he needed money. Possibly 
this time he could be hopelessly involved. He thrust 
forth his hand and cried in his most' genial voice: “Why, 
Mahlon, what brings you out at this time of night? I 

had thought respectable people like you would have been 
in bed!” 

Mahlon opened his lips in the hope, that as a result of 
his exemplary life, something exemplary would issue there¬ 
from of its own accord, because he had no idea what to say. 
i here was nothing sharper in Ashwater County than the 
eyes of Martin Moreland; by this time they had looked 
past Mahlon, down the length of the walk, and visualized 
the conveyance at the gate and the bandaged head it 
contained. 

“You don’t mean to tell me,” he cried roughly, “that 
you have brought Junior home with a broken head! I 
didn’t know you were having a prize fight. I thought I 
was sending the boy to a civilized entertainment!” 

Mrs. Moreland could not have been very far in the 
offing. At Junior’s name she hurried down the hall and 
caught Mahlon’s arm. 

“Is Junior hurt?” she demanded. 


88 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Mahlon’s soul was in rebellion. He never had thrown a 
brick in all his immaculate life. Why any one who had 
known him all his life should assume that he would, or 
that he might be held responsible for bricks thrown by 
any one else, was beyond his comprehension. It was such 
pure insanity that he lost all respect for any one who could 
harbour such a delusion. It gave him the proper mental 
ballast and spinal reinforcement. He straightened him¬ 
self, removed his hat, and stroked his sleeve. In his most 
correct and elaborate manner he answered very quietly, 
and congratulated himself even as he heard the sound of 
his own voice that it was clear and even, without a tremor. 
He wondered how this could happen when his heart was 
pounding until he had instinctively covered it with his hat. 

“I regret to inform you that some roustabout in the 
street threw a piece of brick as Junior was leaving my gate 
this evening. He is slightly cut on the temple, but noth¬ 
ing of any moment. Barring a sore head, he will be as 
usual in the morning, I am quite sure.” 

“But why should any one throw a brick at Junior?” 
demanded Mrs. Moreland, thrusting a strong arm to sweep 
Mahlon back in order to clear a passage for her trip across 
the veranda and down the walk in the direction of her 
offspring. 

By that time, Junior, encircled by his father's arm, 
reached the steps. The ride in the cool evening air had 
refreshed him. Circulation was somewhat reestablished 
in his bruised head. His senses were beginning to clear. 
The one thing he recognized was that any indignity shown 


AN INQUISITION 89 

Mr. Spellman would be instantly carried home and de¬ 
tailed to Mahala, and concerning Mahala his conscience 
was not clear. If he had dared, Mahlon Spellman would 
have leaned on Junior and wept tears of relief and joy, 
because Junior’s first words were the sweetest of music 
upon his anxious ears. 

“Now, look here, you two old fuss-grannies,” the boy 
said half laughingly, “don’t make monkeys of yourselves, 
mollycoddling me. Somebody threw something at some¬ 
thing and hit something, and I’m the something they 
happened to hit, and it happened in the street at the Spell¬ 
man gate where Mahala and I were talking for a minute. 
Mr. Spellman doesn’t know a thing more about it than 
you do, or I do. It was mighty nice of Mrs. Spellman 
to bandage me up and of Mr. Spellman to bring me home. 
What you should do is to thank him politely for his kind¬ 
ness and will he come in and have a bracer from your best 
brand of port? I would be thankful for a little help to 
get up the stairway and to bed, because I really was hit 
a pretty solid jolt.” 

Mahlon Spellman at that minute would have been 
happy to remove Junior’s shoes—what was that about 
latchets?—even to have cleaned them if cleaning were 
necessary. He promptly laid hold of Junior’s arm on the 
side nearest him and propelled him forward. WTat a 
wonderful boy he was! With only a few words to settle 
everything so quickly, so decently! The one place in 
which Providence had dealt unduly with Mahlon had been 
in denying him the consolation of a son. He felt at that 



THE WHITE FLAG 


90 

moment that if he had been the father of a boy who could 
handle a difficult situation as easily as Junior had handled 
the present one, his delight would reasonably have known 
no bounds. Gladly he assisted in helping Junior up the 
stairs, in stretching him on the bed. Then the men left 
him to his mother and went downstairs to try the wine. 

Port did one thing to Mahlon Spellman. It did quite 
another to Martin Moreland. It made Mahlon happy 
and discursive; it put wings on his mentality and set him 
sailing. It made Martin Moreland keen and analytical. 
It nailed him to one point and set him delving concerning 
its various ramifications. One good whiff of his best brand 
brought him straight back to the affair in hand. Why 
should his son and heir, the light of his eyes, and the pride 
of his heart, be hit upon his precious head with a brick? 
Who threw the brick? At what were they aiming when 
they threw it? If Mahala had been with Junior when the 
brick made its impact on his head, why had she not seen 
who did the throwing? He was not a lawyer, but he had 
met constant legal dealings in handling the diverse 
branches of his peculiar brand of banking business. He 
was very well informed concerning legal proceedings. 
Realizing this, Mahlon got himself from the Moreland 
home as speedily as possible, although the port was fine. 
Arriving once more at his own hay mow and feed trough, 
he called Jemima to hold the horse until he removed his 
shoes and best clothing. Jemima offered to care for the 
horse herself, and despite the fact that she had undergone 
many days of tiresome preparation for the party?' Mahlon 


9 i 


AN INQUISITION 

was the kind of man who would allow any one to do any 
personal service that was proffered on his behalf. So 
Mahlon entered his doorway to find Mahala had gone to 
bed, carrying the little gold bird to her room with her, 
while his wife was walking the floor in a torment of doubt 
and uncertainty. 

She simply couldn’t understand; she said so repeatedly 
and emphatically. She said so until Mahlon’s sensitive 
nature could endure no more. He mounted the stairs 
and without preliminaries, opened the fourteen-year-old 
door of his daughter’s room. He found that young lady 
sitting dressed as she had been for the party, beside a small 
table with a hand on either side of the attractive cage 
containing the little bird. 

Mahlon sat down and faced the situation squarely. 

Mahala, dear, he said gently, 6( Mama and I are very 
much perturbed—very much, indeed! In the first place, 
neither of us approves of the expensive gift the Morelands 
saw fit to send for this supposedly happy occasion.” 

“Nor do I,” said Mahala promptly. “Send it back. 

I don t want it. I can see very nicely from the chandelier.” 

I wish,” said Mahlon, a slight petulance tincturing his 
voice, “that you would learn not to break in on me. Have 
you lived with me fourteen years and not yet learned how 
I detest being broken in on? The gift before you is quite 
as inappropriate and far from inexpensive.” 

Mahlon saw the wave of stillness that swept over 
Mahala. He sensed the fact that every nerve and muscle 
in her was tightening. 


92 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“I cannot see that, Papa,” she said very deliberately. 
“ Canaries are not expensive. Why isn’t a singing bird a 
delightful gift to give any one, especially a girl who loves 
music and colour as I do?” 

Mahlon decided to dispense with subtleties and prelimi¬ 
naries. He brushed them aside. He leaned forward. 

“Mahala,” he said, in the deepest bass that he could 
instill into his tones and his most authoritative manner, 
'‘where did that bird come from?” 

Mahala blessed her stars that the question had not been: 
“Who gave you that bird?” 

As it was, her alibi was perfect. She could look her 
father straightly in the eye and answer in her best adapta¬ 
tion of his tones and manner: “I have not the least idea. 
There are several women in town who raise birds for sale. 
If you think it is not beneath your dignity, you might 
make it your business to ask each of them to-morrow. 
Possibty they would tell you to whom they sold a bird 
to-day.” 

That was precisely what Mahlon had intended doing, 
or having his wife do, but that clever provision “beneath 
your dignity” cut him to the core, even as his daughter 
intended that it should. She knew when she injected that 
neat little phrase that she had forever stopped her father 
and her mother from opening their mouths concerning the 
origin of the bird, because with each of them their dignity 
was more important than their souls—and more tangible 
in their own conception. 

To Mahlon it was a body blow. He ran his perturbed 


AN INQUISITION 93 

fingers through his perplexed hair and stared at the in¬ 
nocent young face before him. Had he been any other 
man, he would have said that he would “be damnedj” 
being himself, and a truthful man, he was absolutely 
confident that he should not be damned, while it certainly 
was beneath his dignity” to lie on any subject. So 
he compromised by using milder methods. 

It passes my comprehension,” he said, and his bewil¬ 
derment became tangible, shrouded him like a blanket. 

Mahala instantly agreed with him. 

Yes, so it does mine, she said. “Mother is very 
wise, perhaps she can think it out, or I may get some hint 
at school to-morrow. But, anyway, after all, Papa, is one 
small brass cage and one teeny yellow canary a matter of 
such very great moment? I don’t know what cages cost, 
but seems to me I’ve heard some one say that you could 
buy a nice singer for three dollars. I’ve even heard of 
them as cheap as two. Why is it such a terrible thing to 
be given a little bit of a gold bird with a miracle in its 
throat r Please go to bed, Papa, and don’t bother about 
it.” 

Mahala arose and put her arms across her father’s 
shoulder, and her father drew her down in his lap and held 
her very close. 

In his most warmly sympathetic tones of adjuration he 
said: “My child, this is only the beginning of the things 
Papa is forced to say to you to-night. I never have known 
you to lie to me. Your fact is impressively candid, I 
must admit. I must accept your word that you know 


9 + 


THE WHITE FLAG 


nothing concerning the giver of this bird; but I have a 
very strong idea that you do know something concerning 
Junior’s injury which might have been, and yet may be, 
a thing extremely serious for all of us. There :s such a 
thing as concussion of the brain developing hours after a 
blow on the head, you know.” 

“I hardly think, Papa,” said Mahala, carefully set¬ 
tling Mahlon’s tie in his own best manner, “that a blow 
on the temple is going to produce concussion. It’s usu¬ 
ally the back of the head, isn’t it, when there are bad re¬ 
sults?” 

Mahlon drew a breath of exasperation. He caught 
Mahala’s hands from his hair and his tie and shoving her 
to the extreme limit of his knees, forced her eyes to meet 

his or deliberately avoid them. * 

} 

“Now, look here, young woman, let’s get down to brass 
tacks,” he said authoritatively. “Just what did Junior 
Moreland say or do to you at the gate?” 

With perfect equanimity Mahala met the eyes of her 
stern parent, and realized that the time had arrived when 
she was past subterfuge, that she was facing a stern parent. 
She might as well get it over with because she really was 
both tired and sleepy, while she greatly desired a space of 
uninterrupted quiet in which she might think. 

He said that I was his ‘girl,’ and that when we fin¬ 
ished school I was going to marry him. He was provoked 
about the bird. That’s what made him say it.” 

“Has he ever said things like that to you before?*'' de¬ 
manded Mahlon. 


AN INQUISITION 9S 

He s been saying that I was his girl ever since I can 
remember,” said Mahala; “but Pm not.” 

“Oh, aren’t you?” asked Mahlon, and suddenly, to his 
daughter s intense astonishment, he was playful, he was 
arch, there was a smile on his lips, a light in his eyes; and 
correspondingly, there was no smile on her lips and no 
trace of light in her eyes. 

Of course not, foolish!” she said immediately. “I am 
your girl, and Mother’s girl. How could I possibly be the 
girl of any boy in this town?” 

Um-m-m-m, said Mahlon. “You will find, young 
lady, that you will be glad enough to be the girl of one of 
the boys of this town one of these days, when you have 
finished your education and the time comes to go to a home 
of your own. And I don’t know who there is that you 
know, or that you would be likely to know, that is so hand¬ 
some or so admirably situated as Junior. Let me tell you, 
he did a mighty fine thing to-night, a manly thing, a 
praiseworthy thing.” 

“Tell me,” said Mahala, delighted to have averted her 
father’s attention from the bird and herself. 

And so, Mahlon told her how very praiseworthy had 
been Junior’s conduct in what she was constrained to 
admit had been a most embarrassing and difficult situation 
for her father. 

“All right,” said Mahala, “that was fine of him. I do 
like him slightly better than I did before you told me 
that.” 

“And now then, we will proceed,” said her father. 


96 THE WHITE FLAG 

“What answer did you make when Junior said that you 
were his girl?” 

“I told him I was not,” said Mahala promptly. 

“And then what did Junior do?” 

“He pulled me across the gate and tried to kiss me.” 

“Ah!” said Mahlon Spellman. “Now we are getting 
at the meat of the matter. He tried to kiss you? And 
what did you do?” 

“Pushed him away and wiped my face—what any one 
would do,” said Mahala. 

“And then,” questioned Mahlon, “the brick?” 

“Yes,” admitted Mahala, “the brick.” 

“Now it happens,” said Mahlon, “that I picked up that 
piece of brick. Do you know where it came from?” 

“I do not,” said Mahala. 

“Well, I do,” said Mahlon. “It came from the border 
of one of your mother’s flower beds, just outside the par¬ 
lour window. It was thrown from that direction. Some 
one who had not been invited to the party was watching 
it through the parlour window. Some one who doesn’t 
like Junior Moreland to think that you are his girl, threw 
the brick. Now, Mahala, women, even little girls of four¬ 
teen, are not sufficiently sophisticated to be in the first 
year of high school and at the same time so ignorant that 
they do not know which boy of their acquaintance is 
enough interested in them to risk taking the life of another 
boy who is guilty of no very great indiscretion.” 

“That all depends on the boy,” said Mahala. “If he is 
the son of the rich banker, it’s ‘no great indiscretion;’ if 


AN INQUISITION 97 

it had been the son of say the washerwoman, for example, 
right now you’d be out trying to kill him.” 

“And I very probably should succeed in so far as I 
cared to go in such a premise,” said Mahlon promptly. 

“That’s exactly what I thought,” said Mahala. 

Slipping from his knee and walking to her dresser, she 
began very carefully unpinning the little wreath of silver- 
blue leaves that bound her hair. 

I am waiting, said Mahlon with all the dignity of 
which he was capable—and he was capable of a high de¬ 
gree of really impressive dignity. No one can practise 
anything hourly for fifty years and not attain a high de¬ 
gree of excellence. 

Mahala turned to her father, both hands still occupied 
with the wreath. 

“Papa,” she said very quietly, “you just got through 
saying that I never told you a lie. Do you think it would 
be any great achievement on your part if you should force 
me to tell you one right now?” 

“I am not asking for a lie!” thundered Mahlon. “I 
demand that you tell me the truth!” 

All right, said Mahala, “I will. As you recall, when 
you stepped to the door my back was turned. You had a 
better chance to see any one who might have been in the 
shrubbery than I had. You have not the faintest notion 
who made the attack on Junior. Do you think it would be 
fair for me to answer your demand for the truth with 
merely a surmise on my part ? I didn’t see who threw that 
piece of brick, so I positively refuse to make any surmise!” 


9 8 THE WHITE FLAG 

Mahala turned again to the mirror and loosened one end 
of the silver wreath with something very closely resembling 
a jerk; while Mahlon, studying her back and her shoulders 
and the set of her yellow head, and catching a flash of 
the blazing eyes that the mirror reflected, suddenly re¬ 
membered the advice that had been given him by his wife 
concerning the petticoat: “Don’t begin anything with 

Mahala that you can’t finish.” 

He realized that he had undertaken something that he 
was not man enough to finish. Maybe there was a man in 
the world who could have laid rough hands upon Mahaia 
and choked and beaten from her the information he 
wanted. Because of Mahlon’s inherent refinement he was 
not the man who, by any possibility, could do this. As 
gracefully as he ever passed down the church aisle on 
Sabbath morning with the contribution box, Mahlon arose, 
and walking over to the mirror, he put his arm around 
the small emanation of his own self-esteem. 

“Very well, Mahala,” he said, “as always, Papa accepts 
your word. If you didn’t see who made this unjustifiable 
attack on Junior, of course, you cannot tell me who did it. 
I shall make it my business to find out for myself in some 
other way.” 

“Thank you, Papa, that will be fine,” said Mahala, 
freeing the other end of the wreath. She opened her lips 
and looked at her father and then she closed them. What 
she had wanted to say was: “If there is a boy in this world 
who has the courage to throw a brick when Junior More¬ 
land tries to kiss me, I am very much obliged to him!” 


99 


AN INQUISITION 

But what she desired above everything else at that minute 
was to stop the discussion, to be left alone. Faintly in 
the distance, she now visioned a period, and so she stood 
carefully straightening the wreath, wordless and waiting. 

Realizing something of this, Mahlon took her in his 
arms and kissed her tenderly. He told her that he hoped 
she always would be a good girl, and if, at any time, any¬ 
thing worried her or she was in any way annoyed, she 
must come straight to Papa, who only wanted what was 
for her good and that she should grow up into such an 
exemplary and beautiful woman as her mother was. 

The period came at last, so beautifully rounded and of 
such touching sentiment that Mahala emphasized it by 
putting her arms around her father’s neck, kissing him and 
thanking him, and giving him a slight propulsion in the 
direction of the door, through which he got himself without 
further speech. At last Mahala was left alone to the 
night and the bird. 

Her first thought was to wonder if there could be any¬ 
thing really serious resulting from the blow which Junior 
had so richly deserved. She decided that on account of 
Junior’s youth and strength, he would speedily be all 
right. That burden eased from her mind, she went back 
to the window, and with her arms around the cage again, 
leaned her face against the wires and looked into the night 
of wonder and tried to think deep and straight. 

This was difficult for it was a night of enchantment to 
the girl. The clouds floated across the moon and obscured 
it, then drifted away and left the night silvered in the high 


IOO 


THE WHITE FLAG 

lights, deeply black in the shadows. Her heart ached over 
the lean face she had glimpsed through the window. Why 
should the best boy and the best scholar in her class be an 
outcast through no fault of his? Hers had been a lovely 
party from her mother’s viewpoint—weeks of preparation, 
pretty clothes, gifts, and adulation. Of course, the brick 
incident, annoying, but nothing of any moment—a beauti¬ 
ful party- 

Mahala choked back an aching sob. She softly slipped 
her hand into the cage, picked the canary from his perch, 
and kissed his bright head before she went to bed in the 
early gray of morning. And even then, she was too rest¬ 
less, filled with pity, to sleep. She told herself repeatedly 
that she should have been anxious about Junior; but all 
the trouble in her heart arose from fear as to what might 
be happening to Jason. 



CHAPTER IV 


“Strength from Weakness” 

U NDER the stimulus of his glass of port, Martin 
Moreland was wondering about his son—his idol¬ 
ized son. He climbed the stairway and stood at 
the foot of Junior’s bed until the lad’s mother had finished 
fussing over him. Then he said to her roughly: “Now 
you go on to bed. Junior and I want a few minutes to 
talk this thing out.” 

When the door had closed after his wife, Martin More¬ 
land drew a chair to the side of the bed, and sitting down, 
said with visible effort to be calm: “Exactly how badly 
are you hurt, Junior?” 

Junior answered truthfully: “Like the devil so far as 
pain goes. I reckon I’ll be all right to-morrow, but I 
don’t know whether I wdll or not.” 

“Had I better get Doctor Grayson?” asked Mr, 
Moreland. 

“I don’t see what he could do that hasn’t been done,” 
said Junior. “You know how nice Mrs. Spellman is. She 
washed and washed; she put on camphor that just about 
raised the hair on my head; she bound me carefully with 
clean cloths. What more could old Grayson do ? You bet¬ 
ter let me go to sleep now and see how I feel in the morning.” 

IOI 


102 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“All right,” said Martin Moreland. 

His tones were so very grim that Junior glanced at him 
apprehensively; he realized that matters were very far 
from “all right” with his father. He could see him grip¬ 
ping his shaking hands one over each knee in order to 
hold himself steady. 

Then came what he had to say: “As a rule, Junior, I am 
rather easy with you because you are my son and I want 
you to get some fun out of life before you begin the work 
and worry that will come when you are a man; but I am 
not feeling particularly easy at this minute because I hap¬ 
pen to realize that a blow aimed at you is really intended 
for me. It should be my head that’s bleeding right now 
instead of yours. Gut with it! Who threw that brick?” 

Junior lay very still. He looked straight ahead of him 
for an instant and then he studied his father craftily. 

“It came from the direction of a patch of thick shrub¬ 
bery beside the house,” he said. “I could not possibly 
see who threw it.” 

“Nevertheless, you know who there would be that 
would throw it,” said Martin Moreland, his voice rough 
with emotion. 

“As it happens, since you feel it really was aimed at 
you, I don’t know,” said Junior. “But I intend to make 
it my business to find out and when I do, I’ll tell you. 
This minute I am going to sleep if I can.” 

Junior turned his back and lay still. So his father blew 
out the light and went down the stairs. In the hall he 
met his wife. 


“STRENGTH FROM WEAKNESS” 103 

“I have just remembered that I forgot to sign some 
papers that must go out in the morning mail,” he said. 
“I am going down to the bank and attend to them. Go 
to bed and go to sleep. The boy’s all right. I’ll take 
another look at him when I come back. If I find he’s 
feverish, I’ll go after Grayson. If he’s all right, we’ll wait 
till morning.” 

Then he took his hat and left tshe house. 

He followed the alley beside his residence to where it 
met a side street and here he took up a familiar route 
through unlighted ways and deep shadows to the out¬ 
skirts of the town. His feet led him on a familiar path 
to a familiar door, and when he tapped upon it, immedi¬ 
ately it swung open. He followed Marcia to her room, 
and when she turned toward him with a smile, she was 
dumbfounded to see that he was in the most ungovernable 
rage that ever had possessed him in her presence. 

“Martin!” she cried, starting toward him, “Martin! 
What has happened?” 

Martin Moreland opened his lips to speak, but he was 
so disconcerted that he could only utter a hissing, stam¬ 
mering sound. Marcia hurried to a cabinet and brought 
him a glass of wine. With shaking hands he took the glass 
but his body remained rigid against her efforts to guide 
him to a chair. Marcia stood before him in white-lipped 
wonder. 

“Martin, what have I doner” she entreated. 

Steadied by the wine, Martin Moreland found his voice. 

“Done!” he panted. “What have you done? You’ve 


THE WHITE FLAG 


104 

raised that hell-hound of a Jason in such a way that to¬ 
night makes the second time that he has attacked my son! 
My son!” 

Martin Moreland’s clenched muscles shivered the fragile 
wine glass until when he opened his hand, the blood was 
dripping from it. 

“Oh, Martin!” cried Marcia, “I did my best with the 
boy! Before God, I did! I never mentioned Junior’s 
name to him. I almost never speak to him at all, only 
about the work. The thing I did was to try to get him 
to study hard. He is a good boy, and I thought that was 
his only chance.” 

“‘A good boy!’” raved Martin Moreland. “‘A good 
boy!’ He’s an insidious imp of the devil! To-night he 
tried to kill Junior, and it may be that by morning my 
boy will develop concussion of the brain. Concussion of 
the brain! ” He shouted each word at the terrified Marcia, 
wildly gesticulating toward her with his dripping hand. 
“I thought that first lesson I gave him would be enough 
for him. To-night I’ll not leave him till he’s in the same 
shape my boy is.” 

He turned and started toward the door. Marcia threw 
herself before him. 

“Wait, Martin! Wait!” she begged. “Don’t go to 
him feeling that way, you might kill him!” 

He thrust her roughly aside and the bleeding hand left 
its impress on the breast of a white dress that she was 
wearing for his allurement. 

“I’ll take devilish good care that I don’t kill him.” he 


“STRENGTH FROM WEAKNESS” 


ioq 

V 

said, “because I cannot afford the scandal. Maybe you 
think I don’t know every hound of the pack that would be 
at my throat if they had the slightest encouragement. 
Maybe you think I don’t know the man who would lead 
in running me down, if I gave him the least hint as to 
where he could find an opening.” 

He turned and started toward the stairway. 

Jason had dropped on his pillow just as he was, and had 
fallen asleep, his brain busy with the events of the evening. 
He was deep in the midst of a wonderful dream. He had 
seen himself with flesh on his bones, hope in his eyes, and 
pride in his heart. He made a surprising vision. He 
was wearing clothing as beautiful as the suits that always 
had been worn by Junior Moreland. He had seen him¬ 
self, with the step of independence, standing before the 
door of Mahlon Spellman. He had used the knocker 
and had stepped inside. The great merchant had shaken 
hands with him and with his most urbane gesture had in¬ 
dicated that he was to walk into the parlour. He had 
boldly walked in, and in the presence of Mrs. Spellman 
and his schoolmates, he had offered Mahala the bird. 
She had been in such transports of joy as he had seen with 
his actual eyes that evening. She had opened the cage 
door and the gold bird had left its perch and flown to her 
finger; as she held it up, suddenly frightened at the faces 
and the lights, it had darted swiftly above their heads and 
from the open doorway. 

Her cries of distress awakened him. His feet came to 
the floor and he swung his body upright. Then he heard 


THE WHITE FLAG 


io6 

He arose and took three steps to the head of the stairs. 
He was unconscious that he had reached out and picked 
up a small wooden stool that stood beside his bed to hold 
a candle or water. He looked down the stairway. At its 
foot stood, what, to the boy, seemed to be a monster 
fashioned from unyielding steel into the shape of an inex¬ 
orable ogre. 

The distortion of Martin Moreland’s face seen from the 
angle at which the boy was standing, was hideous. Hi^ 
mouthing threats were terrifying. His uplifted hand was 
dripping blood. Something tightened in the breast of the 
boy and arose in his throat, creeping back to his brain. 
Even as he gazed, there mingled with the terror he knew 
a slow wonder, for he was on a line with the locked door— 
that door inside which he had never had a glimpse. It 
opened into a room full of light; he saw beautiful furniture, 
dainty things, and silken hangings. Beside Martin More¬ 
land, trying to block his way, clinging to him, there was a 
woman, a stranger woman, a woman that the boy never 
before had seen. She was wearing an exquisite wrapper 
of snowy white, foaming with laces, falling to her feet and 
heaping there as if she stood in a drift of snow. 

At this apparition, Jason stared in dull wonder. Through 
the paralysis of terror in his brain there filtered the 
thought that Marcia could be made to look like that when 
the day came that he could give her beautiful clothing 
and such a room. A white ray of moonlight from the 
open window beside him fell on the boy and lighted the 
stairway. He saw the banker’s awful hand crash against 


“STRENGTH FROM WEAKNESS’’ 


107 

the breast of the woman. He heard her cry of pain and 
pleading. He heard the thick, shaking voice shout: “Save 
your damned mouthing! The chances are that I will 
kill him before I get through with him this time!” 

The woman, in her feathery laces, was thrown aside; 
Martin Moreland started up the stairway two steps at a 
time. When he was nearly two thirds of the way up, 
Jason moved, the wooden stool curved a circle around his 
head; then it crashed down with the combined strength 
of his two arms of desperation. 

Martin Moreland uttered a guttural, rasping grunt. He 
clutched at the smooth sides of the walls but there was no 
supporting rail. Slowly his body curved backward and 
went crashing down, and into the arms that were stretched 
out, he fell, bearing the woman to the floor with him. 
Staring dully, Jason saw her struggle up; saw her stretch 
the form of the banker at the foot of the stairs; saw a hand 
reach across him to close the door. 

Jason turned, every line of his terrified face etched clear 
in the moonlight. He went straight to the window and 
climbing through it, slid down the slanting roof of the 
lean-to, and dropping to the ground, turned his face 
toward the adjoining pasture and the woods back of it, and 
with all the strength he could summon, ran for cover, for 
the protection of the darkness that the big trees afforded. 

Kneeling on the floor beside the banker, Marcia ran her 
hand across his temple and was horrified to find that it 
was covered with a sticky, warm red. She staggered to 
her feet, and hurrying to the kitchen, she brought back a 


io8 


THE WHITE FLAG 


basin of water. But before she used it she again put 
brandy to Moreland’s lips. For a few minutes she worked 
over him frantically. Then she arose, and stepping 
across his body, she called up the stairway: “I’m afraid 
you’ve killed him. Run, Jason, run! Run to the end of 
the earth and never come back!” 

She listened, but there was no sound and no answer. 
She glanced backward, and then with flying feet, she 
climbed the stairs until her head was level with the floor 
of the garret, and in the pale light she searched the empty 
room and the vacant bed. Then she hurried back and 
renewed her ministrations. 

It was a long time before Martin Moreland opened his 
eyes. Another long time elapsed before he allowed her to 
assist him to her room, where he dropped upon the bed 
and lay struggling to attain self-control. 

“Can you feel if my skull is cracked?” he asked Marcia. 

“I was afraid to try,” she answered. “I don’t think 
that it is.” 

“Feel!” he said. “Push against the scalp hard. See 
if it gives any, if you can detect a seam.” 

With sick eyes and nauseated lips, Marcia knelt beside 
Martin Moreland and felt his temple, ran her fingers 
through the thick, light hair covering his head. 

“I am quite sure it is only a surface cut,” she said. 

Strengthened by the brandy and recovering slightly 
from the shock, Martin Moreland stopped raving. In 
slow, deliberate pauses of finality he laid down the law: “I 
will not risk coming in contact with that hound pup 


“STRENGTH FROM WEAKNESS” 


109 


again,” he said. “After this he’ll shift for himself. After 
this you are going to live where such a scene cannot be 
repeated. You can get ready what you want to take with 
you. You are going to leave this house inside of an 
hour, if my legs will carry me down town.” 

Despite her entreaties, he arose and staggered from the 
house. It was not an hour later until a dray stood before 
the door. The beautiful room was dismantled, and into 
the night, with her personal belongings heaped around 
her, Marcia was driven from the only home she had. 


CHAPTER V 

The Verdict Goes Against Jezebel 

J ASON, fleeing through the darkness of a thicket at the 
approach to the forest, was running in headlong 
terror. He was ripped by thorns, rasped by black¬ 
berry vines. He was in no condition to think. He was 
escaping an enormous, blood-dripping hand clutching at 
his back in a threat against his life. Staring ahead of 
him, he ran wildly; he did not realize where his flying feet 
were taking him until he fell into a mass of warm, living 
things. A shriek of terror broke from his lips. Then 
the odour of cattle, the heavy breathing, and the slow 
arisings around him told him, even in his frenzy of fear, 
that he was among harmless creatures. He looked back 
to see the meadow lying white behind him. He could be 
seen plainly across it, so again he ran with all his might 
for the shelter of the forest. Into the darkness of its out¬ 
stretched arms he plunged for refuge. He could not see 
where he v/as going. Repeatedly he ran against, trees 
until he was bruised, half stunned, and finally, when his 
strength was almost exhausted, he fell across a big log 
and allowed his body to slide to earth regardless of what 
might happen to him. Throwing up his arms, he pillowed 
his head upon them while a dry sob tore from his lips. 


T TO 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL m 

He was only a boy. He was not quite sixteen. There 
was no one who loved him, and there was no one who cared 
if the banker did kill him. There was no help from heaven 
above or the earth upon which he lay. In his confused 
state, it appealed to him that very likely he had killed 
the rich and powerful banker. What would be done to 
him if he had, he could not imagine, but he knew that it 
would be done swiftly, it would be done cruelly. Twice 
he had heard the threat to kill him. The first sob bred 
others. His face dropped against the cold, damp mosses 
of the log and he cried until he was exhausted. Then his 
breath came more evenly; his eyes slowly closed, and 
presently, with the quick reactions of youth, he was 
resting. 

He had only slept a few minutes when there came in 
contact with his face a nauseating odour and the touch of 
a furred creature from which he drew back with a terrified 
scream. In the darkness he could see a pair of big, gleani¬ 
ng green eyes. He could not know that it was only a 
coon carrying a chicken taken from his own hen house. 
He could not know that the mouthful of chicken prevented 
the coon from recognizing the man odour until it had 
stepped upon him. 

Jason sprang to his feet and went plunging through the 
forest again. His next period of exhaustion found him at 
a thicket of spice brush and he sank down beside it and 
lay panting for breath. It was only a short respite until a 
great, horned owl, screaming with the panther scream of 
its species when food hunting, plunged into the bushes, 


112 


THE WHITE FLAG 


its wings wide spread, to scare out small, sheltered birds. 
This owl cry was as blood-curdling as that of any animal. 
Jason was so terrified that once more he went lunging 
forward until he fell in utter exhaustion and lay uncon¬ 
scious. 

That morning Junior Moreland and his father faced 
each other across the breakfast table each having a ban¬ 
daged head. In his heart, each of them was furious over 
his condition. Junior expressed the opinion to his mother 
that some one had hit him accidentally when throwing at a 
prowling cat or a loose animal. Mr. Moreland explained 
that he had been compelled to work late at the bank. 
As he was locking the door on leaving, some one had struck 
him a terrible blow on the head—struck him so forcefully 
that he had fallen as if he were dead, which evidently 
frightened the burglar so that he ran away without taking 
his watch and the big diamond ring that he always wore 
on his left hand. 

These explanations were offered for the satisfaction of 
Mrs. Moreland. She sat in a sort of stupefaction, looking 
from her husband to her son, her mind filled with slow 
wonder, with persistent questionings, with sickening fore¬ 
bodings. She kept asking for details, when in her heart 
she knew they were lying to her. She so fervently desired 
to accept their word that she asked for particulars in the 
hope that one or the other might afford her a small de¬ 
gree of heart-ease by telling her something so convinc¬ 
ing that she could believe it and not feel like a fool in so 
doing. 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL u 3 

As Mr. Moreland left the breakfast table, he said to 
Junior: “Come up to the bathroom a minute. I want to 
be sure your head is all right before you risk going to 
school.” 

Once inside the most elaborate of the three bathrooms 
of Ashwater, Moreland Senior closed the door and faced 
Moreland Junior. 

“Now, out with it, young man,” he said. 

Moreland Junior looked at his father speculatively. 

“I told you the truth last night, Dad,” he said. “I 
didn’t see who did it, but, of course, it was Jason. There 
isn’t any one else who would have dared. He’s had it in 
for me since that time he spoiled my suit, and you had 
him licked for it.” 

A slow grin broke over Junior’s face. He looked at his 
father with an impudent leer. His eyes focussed on the 
surgical bandages decorating the Senior Moreland’s head, 
and then slowly and deliberately, he said: “He’s a darn 
good shot, ain’t he?” 

Taken unexpectedly and in a tender spot, Moreland 
Senior caught his breath sharply as he studied his son. 

“Of course, that burglar stuff is all right to feed Mother,” 
said Junior. “A woman will swallow anything, and 
Mother’s a regular boa constrictor, if you tell it to her real 
impressively. But you needn’t dish out that burglar 
dope to me. You didn’t have luck to brag of manhandling 
Jason for busting my head, did you, Dad?” 

Moreland Senior lifted his right hand, also in surgical 
bandages, and then with the tips of the injured member, 


THE WHITE FLAG 


114 

he slowly felt across his damaged head. He leaned for^ 
ward to look at his reflection in the mirror. 

“For God’s sake, don’t come to the bank to-day,” he 
said. “It’s going to look damned funny to the people of 
this towm to see both of us in bandages. Keep your 
mouth shut and leave this to me. I’ll see to it that you 
don’t come in contact with that scorpion in school again. 
He don’t know it, but he’s through going to a school that 
I run.” 

Moreland Senior lifted the hurt hand toward the blue 
of the bathroom ceiling and eased his soul of mighty 
oaths. He swore that he would yet punish Jason to 
within an inch of his life; that he never should enter the 
high school again; and that whatever he attempted in life 
should be a failure. 

Junior reinforced his wavering legs by taking a seat on 
the broad wooden rim surrounding the tin bath tub, while 
he looked at his father speculatively. 

“Dad,” he asked slowly, “why the hell have you got it 
in so strong for Jason Peters ? He can’t help it because his 
mother is a washerwoman and he can’t produce anything 
in the shape of a father. Every one’s got to admit he 
has the best brains of any boy in my class. I hate the 
pasty-faced, mewling thing, but I’m forced to tell you that 
there’s something in him when he can stand at the head 
of his classes, and when he can get away with you and me 
both the same night.” 

Then Junior squared his shoulders, threw up his hand¬ 
some bandaged head, and laughed until he started a pain 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 115 

that stopped the laughter. The Senior Moreland hur¬ 
riedly left the bathroom, closing the door behind him 
with undue emphasis. 

Among the thick branches of the Ashwater forest there 
were a few small openings. A brilliant morning ray of 
October sunshine found one of these and shot its level 
beam straight into the pallid face of a sleeping boy curled 
on the damp, frosty ground. Stiff with cold in his physical 
frame, stiff with terror yet in his heart, Jason opened his 
eyes, deeply set in an attractive framework, a forehead 
of intelligence above, the remainder lean and intellectual. 
At first he was so numbed that it was difficult to realize 
where he was or how he had got there. Then slowly he 
arose and made his way to the sunlight of the meadow; 
there he sat on the stump of a felled tree and began an 
effort to command a continuous procession of thought. 
He began as far back as he could remember, and year by 
year, he came down the progression of his days. He tried to 
figure out why the woman with whom he had lived had not 
been to him as other mothers were to their sons. She 
had worked hard, they had been poor; but many women 
in the village had worked harder, had larger families and 
been less capable of taking care of them. He had seen all 
of them evince for their children some degree of solicitude 
and of love. He could recall neither of these things ever 
having been proffered him. 

He tried to figure out why the fact that Martin More¬ 
land owned the house in which they lived, should give 
him the right repeatedly to enter it late at night and at- 


n6 


THE WHITE FLAG 


tack him physically. Of course, Junior had lied to his 
father. He lied to every one when a lie suited his purpose 
better than the truth. He lied habitually to his mother, 
to his playmates, to his teachers; but even so, Jason could 
not understand why his teachers were not left to deal with 
him, as they were with other boys in case of wrong doing. 
By and by, he remembered the long walk he had made 
to BlufFport for the canary which he had bought with some 
of the money he had saved for his own use, earned by 
doing extra work on Saturdays and of nights and mornings 
and during summer vacations in the grocery of Peter 
Potter. He had understood why Mahala could not invite 
him to her party, and he understood as surely that she 
would have done it if she could; and that made everything 
concerning her all right with Jason. To his mind, the 
will to do was in no way related to the power of execution. 
Because Mahala wanted to invite him, he had thought 
deeply, and the loveliest thing he could think of in con¬ 
nection with her was a bird, as gold as her hair, that spent 
its life in spontaneous song,—the tiny, domestic creature 
that loved the bars of the only home its kind had known 
for generations and would have been terrified and lost 
outside them. He had been compelled to walk far and 
fast, to beg rides when he could, in order to cover the dis¬ 
tance, and get Peter Potter’s hand to frame the note for 
him that he tied upon the cage, in time for the party. He 
had left the bird at her door; he had seen Mahala love it. 
He had felt her hand on his arm, her gift thrust into his 
fingers; he had heard her voice urging him to protect him- 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 117 

self; but not one word had she said to chide him for the 
impulse that had caused him to tear the piece of brick 
from the border of Mrs. Spellman’s flower bed and send it 
smashing against the head of the boy who had dared to 
touch her roughly, to lay the hateful red of his full-lipped 
mouth on her delicate face. 

The sunlight slowly warmed Jason and comforted him. 
He began to feel the gnawing of hunger. He remembered 
with a shock that almost toppled him ofl* the stump, that 
all the honours of the previous evening had been his. He 
had watched the party from the vantage of a maple tree 
outside the parlour window, and it had been a long time 
before he had gained the courage to set his gift before the 
door, ring the bell, and rush back to his viewpoint. Now 
he recalled the fact, that while Junior’s gift had been shown 
to the other children and examined and exclaimed upon, 
it was his gift that Mahala had taken into her arms. He 
did not even have to shut his eyes to see her face strained 
against the wires of the cage. He could hear her voice 
crying: “Oh, you dear little bird, I love you!” in Billings’ 
cattle pasture quite as plainly as he had heard it the pre¬ 
vious night. 

Jason drew a deep breath and stood up and tested 
his strength. So far as Junior was concerned, he would 
undertake to handle him in the future, not from ambush, 
not with the help of a piece of brick. He would engage, 
by the strength of his arms and the tumult in his heart, 
to meet Junior as man met man upon any occasion. 

Then he advanced a degree further in his progression, 


THE WHITE FLAG 


11 8 

only to face the power of the banker. How was it that a 
beautiful woman in fine clothing appeared in his humble 
home; that she called the banker “Martin”; that she 
dared lay her hands upon him; that she tried to stop 
him from coming up the stairs mouthing his threats to 
kill; that she endured the blow from his blood-dripping 
hand? Who could the woman of foaming laces and ar¬ 
resting beauty have been save Marcia Peters? In his 
heart Jason always had called the woman with whom he 
lived “Marcia Peters.” She never had taught him to 
call her “mother.” He never had attempted the familiar¬ 
ity even when a small child. She had said to him: 
“Marcia will give you a glass of milk.” He had said to 
her: “Marcia, please give me ji piece of bread.” How 
was it that in his life with her she was plain and homely, 
bending over a washtub, quietly mending laces and em¬ 
broideries, while behind a locked door there was a room 
full of light, of delicate colour, of fashionable clothing, a 
room from which emanated flower perfumes and the tang 
of wine, a room with which the banker must have been 
familiar since he stepped from it laying down the law of 
outrage ? 

Jason’s shoulders were square and his face was toward 
home now. But some way, as he took the first step in 
that direction, in his heart he felt that he was slightly 
taller, stronger, different from the boy he had been the 
night before. He might get no satisfactory answer, but 
there were questions he intended to ask. He had no idea 
what he would find at the other side of the meadow. 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL n 9 

Would Martin Moreland be lying dead at the foot of the 
stairs? Would Marcia have dragged him into the locked 
room? Would she tell him to go and dig a deep place in 
the forest? Would they carry Martin Moreland out the 
coming night and lay him in it, and must they walk the 
remainder of their lives with a horrible secret stiffening 
their mouths and taunting their brains? 

As he mulled these problems over and over in his mind 
he reached his back door. He realized that something 
portentous had happened. There were many heavy foot¬ 
prints, deeply cut wagon tracks; the cow was not calling 
from the shed; his white chickens that he had earned 
through the medium of Peter Potter, were not walking in 
their yard calling for their breakfast. He laid his hand 
upon the kitchen door, and tried to open it, only to find 
that it was locked. Then he went to the front door 
which was locked, while across it there was nailed a 
board upon which was printed in big, black letters: “This 
property for sale.” Through the window he could look 
into the house and see that it was empty. Then he knew 
that the woman he had always thought of as his mother 
had abandoned him. Marcia must have been the woman 
that he had seen the night before. He sat on the top 
step and began to remember again. He remembered 
many things—little things. The rubber gloves she wore 
when she was washing. She had said that they were to 
protect her fingers so that she could handle laces and fine 
mending. He remembered the jealously locked door and 
the glimpse he had had inside it the previous night. How 


120 


THE WHITE FLAG 

could she have emptied the house and disappeared in that 
length of time without the aid of a powerful influence: 
He had seen the powerful influence in the grim figure with 
the uplifted hand. He had seen her dare to touch the 
banker. He had heard her call him ‘ Martin, he had 
seen the mark of his bloody hand on her white breast. 
She had been roughly flung aside as if she were a creature 
worthy of no consideration. 

Suddenly Jason found that his face was buried in his 
rough, lean hands, while his body was torn once more with 
deep, dry sobs that rasped his being until the soles of his 
feet twitched on the board walk. When he had cried 
until he was exhausted, he slowly arose, and going around 
the house, he pumped some water and bathed his face 
and hands, drying them with a forgotten towel hanging 
on the back porch. He combed his hair with his fingers 
and straightened his clothing as best he could. He turned 
his face in the direction of the only friend he had in the 
world to whom he could go. 

On the way, he made a detour and passed the bank on 
the opposite side of the street. Then he lingered until he 
saw Martin Moreland cross from the wicket of the paying 
teller to the private office of the President. Jason knew 
him by his height, his form, his bandaged head. The face 
of the boy took on the look of a man as he went on his 
way. 

There was a lull in the business of the morning when 
Jason walked into the grocery of Peter Potter. Peter 
was precisely what his name implied—British, English of 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 121 

birth, as all Potters have a right to be, stable of character 
as all Peters have a right to be; the rock that a discerning 
mother had discovered in his small face before she had 
decorated him with the Peter appellation. Unquestion- 
ably, Peter had not been as progressive as he might have 
been. He had been faithful in the grocery business, but 
he had lacked talent. There were a thousand things that 
he should have been doing in the morning lull; instead he 
Was smoking a pipe and contentedly stroking a cat. His 
florid face was very round, his bright eyes were twinkly 
blue. A hint of shrewdness and penuriousness lay in the 
lines around them; more than a hint of stubbornness lay 
in the breadth of his chin. Conservatism was written all 
over his baggy breeches and his gingham shirt, but no one 
would have dared to look at Peter Potter and say that 
he was not immaculately clean in person, honest in dis¬ 
position, while the discerning might have surmised that he 
was misinformed as to the size of his palpitator. Peter 
prided himself upon being close. 

Jason felt sufficiently well acquainted with Peter to 
venture a familiarity. Now Jason was not given to 
familiarities, but he had spent a searing night in the woods, 
he had spent the morning in Billings’ pasture and at his 
deserted home. He had reached a decision, and that de¬ 
cision was that he was utterly alone in the world, that he 
had his own way to make, and that he must begin by using 
his wits. And so, in desperation, he thrust his past be¬ 
hind him, and spiritually as naked as at the hour of his 
birth and equally as forsaken, he stood before Peter Potter. 


122 


THE WHITE FLAG 


In a voice that sounded peculiar to himself and that caught 
Peter in an unaccustomed way, Jason said quietly: “Peter, 
I have decided that the time has come when you need a 
partner in your business.” 

Peter Potter lifted the cat by each of its fore legs and 
setting one of its hind feet upon either of his knees, care¬ 
fully surveyed its white belly and the exquisitely lined tor¬ 
toise shell of its back, and replied: “Who says I haven’t 
had a partner for lo, these many years? Hasn’t Jezebel 
performed signal service when she’s kept this place free of 
rats and mice?” 

“She surely has,” answered Jason, “but your store isn’t 
going to regain its position as the leading grocery of Ash- 
water merely by being free of rats and mice—keeping a cat 
in their stead. Many people don’t like cats in groceries.” 

Peter considered this as he carefully set the cat upon the 
floor and with a shove of his foot told her to busy herself 
about her predestined occupation. Then he lifted his 
eyes to Jason and was rather surprised to notice how the 
boy had grown since the last time he had looked at him 
carefully. Maybe his height was due to the fact that 
Jason was standing. Peter got upon his feet in order to 
bring his bulk more nearly on a level with Jason, and when 
he reached a level with the boy, he noticed that height 
was not the only attainment since he had last looked at 
him searchingly. His face had so many things in it that 
Peter blinked and turned his eyes from it. It was almost 
as if he had looked into a holy of holies where the eyes of a 
human being had no right to intrude. He wondered what 



VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 123 

could have happened to the boy in twelve hours that had 
turned him into a man. 

There was something so heart-stirring in Jason’s face 
that Peter Potter’s voice was husky as he asked: “Why do 
you think I need a partner?” 

Jason replied: “You need a driver who won’t race your 
delivery horse when he’s out of your sight. You need a 
clerk who will weigh your goods carefully, charge what he 
should, and use sense about giving credit. You need a 
partner who will put all the money he is paid into your 
cash drawer, and who won’t spend his spare time fishing 
from your raisin jar and your cracker barrel.” 

Peter Potter moistened his lips with an interested 
tongue and ventured a study of Jason’s face. 

“Meaning you?” he inquired tersely. 

Jason took off his hat and tried to see how tall he could 
look. He bravely answered: “Yes, Peter, meaning me. 
I could do a lot of things that would be a big help to you, 
if you would give me a free hand here until I could show 
you what I could do.” 

Peter reflected. “I don’t see how you’re going to do so 
very much in what time you have mornings and evenings; 
really to perform a miracle you’d need more of the week 
than Saturday.” 

“You are right,” said Jason. “All the time there is, I 
can give to you. I’m not going to school any more.” 

Peter shook his head. 

“No, Jason,” he said finally, “that won’t do. Eddica- 
tion is a blasted good thing for any boy or girl to have 


124 


THE WHITE FLAG 


I’ve taken a good deal of pride in you, bein’ top notch of 
your classes. I’ve figured that I’d buy you a purty nice 
present the night you gradiate with the honours of your 
class.” 

Then Jason looked Peter through and through. A big 
warm surge of comfort suffused his wiry body. How 
wonderful! Peter Potter was proud of him! He had been 
planning secretly to buy him a gift. Jason forgot about 
how tall he was trying to look. 

“Peter,” he said, “I’m in trouble this morning. If you 
keep your eyes on Hill Street, you’ll notice that both the 
banker and his precious son are wearing bandaged heads* 
And, between us, I am proud to admit that the bandages 
are worn in deference to the accuracy of my aim: in the 
case of the son, with a piece of brick, in that of the father, 
with a heavy stool. There wouldn’t be the slightest use 
in my going to school this morning, Peter. I’d be expelled 
before noon. I am staving off that action by staying away. 
There isn’t room in the same class any longer for the son of 
the Ashwater banker and the son of the Ashwater washer¬ 
woman.” 

Peter Potter lifted a plump hand and drew it across the 
lips of his wide-open mouth, and then his jaws came to¬ 
gether with a snap and from between his teeth he said 
slowly: “So that's the lay of the land?” 

Jason nodded. 

“Yes, Peter,” he said, “‘that’s the lay of the land.’ 
You’re the only friend I’ve got on earth. Will you let me 
come into your grocery and see if I can clean it up and get 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 125 

back some of your business, and help you as a boy ought 
to help his father? And will you let me have room among 
the barrels at the back, or upstairs, where I can set a 
trundle-bed ?” 

Peter studied Jason and reflected. Then he delivered 
himself of his conclusion in the speech of fifty years of 
association. 

“It’s a blasted shame,” he said. “It hadn’t oughter 
be. This town oughter riz up an’ stand beside you and 
see that you get your schoolin’. But I guess the truth is 
that Martin Moreland has got so many men in his clutches 
that they don’t hardly know their souls are their own. I 
could have been in better shape myself, if I’d ’a’ borrowed 
from him when I needed money darn bad, but I’d said 
I wouldn’t do it, and I didn’t do it, and so I let my stock 
run down and I lost trade. But I figure that I’m one of 
about half a dozen men in town that he ain’t got his shack¬ 
les on. It appeals to me that the rest of ’em comes mighty 
close to being critters that will jump through most any 
kind of a hoop that he holds before ’em when he cracks his 
whip. If you got your mind fully made up to this, you bet 
your sweet life you can have a bed in the upstairs. We’ll 
push the barrels back and straighten the boxes and run a 
partition across and fix you a nice place. Be a protection 
to the store to have you there. What was you figurin’ on 
about terms?” 

“I’ll tell you,” said Jason. “You give me enough food, 
enough milk and butter and dried beef and eggs and green 
stuff, to just barely keep my stomach from cramping and 


126 


THE WHITE FLAG 


r 


pinching all the time, and let me work a month. Then 
you figure yourself what I’ve been worth to you. And if 
you will, help me to buy the bed. The truth is, I spent 
every cent I had yesterday.” 

“All right,” said Peter Potter. “Things are always 
pretty dead about now. Let’s go right up and push back 
the clutter. Then I’ll go over to Jefferson’s furniture 
store and fix you up a bed.” 

So together they climbed the creaking stairs and piled 
back barrels and boxes until they cleared space in the front 
part of the storeroom above the grocery upon which to 
stand a small bed for Jason. 

While Jason washed windows, swept the floors, and 
began to dust the boxes and bottles upon the shelves, 
Peter Potter went to the furniture store, and out of the 
bigness of his heart, instead of a trundle-bed he bought a 
neat oak bed with real springs, a mattress, and a pillow. 
He felt almost militant as he marched into Mahlon Spell¬ 
man s dry-goods store to buy a pair of pillow cases, two 
pairs of sheets, a heavy blanket and a comfort. That 
night J^son looked at the stained, cobwebby ceiling above 
him, the battered walls surrounding him, and mentally 
visioned the partition promised to shut him off from the 
remainder of the storeroom. 

When they were ready to lock up for the night, Peter 
Potter bolted the doors on the inside, went back to his per¬ 
sonal chair near the big iron stove, and sitting down with 
the tortoise-shell cat in his lap, motioned Jason toward 
another chair. 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 127 

“Now,” he said, “go ahead. Tell me all about this. I 
ain’t intending to go home tale bearin’ to Mirandy; I just 
want to have the satisfaction of knowin’ in my own soul 
where I stand regardin’ the Morelands.” 

So Jason began with the time of the tormenting of 
Rebecca and detailed occurrences up to the previous night. 
Peter sat quietly stroking Jezebel. Sometimes through 
narrowed lids, he watched the boy; sometimes his attem 
tion seemed wholly taken up with the cat. But when 
Jason had finished the last word he had to say, not for¬ 
getting the first look inside the locked door, Peter Potter 
sat still and meditated. Then surreptitiously he scruti¬ 
nized Jason. He studied in detail the set and colour of the 
hair on his head, the look from his eyes, the shape of his 
features, the build of his body, his hands as they hung 
idly before him. Then he dipped back into what he called 
the “ancient history” of Ashwater, and thought over re¬ 
ports and rumours that had been current in the town a 
good many years before. 

When Jason had finished, Peter arose without any com¬ 
ment upon what he had been told. He set the cat care¬ 
fully on the floor and lightly shoved her from him with his 
foot. 

“Jezebel,” he said, “you’ve been a queen of a cat and a 
fine mouser, but your reign is over. There are them as 
object to cats promenading on the counters and sleepin’ in 
the cracker barrel. Go chase yourself! Vamoose! Try 
Thornton’s drug store. More of the stuff there is bottled. 
Farewell, forever!” 


128 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Peter recovered the cat, and standing with her in his 
arms, he said to Jason: “I think that you’ve done about 
the only thing left for you. I believe after this you can’t 
go back to school. I’ll get the carpenter to put in that 
partition as quick as he can, and if you’d like the walls 
fresh, we’ll cover ’em with a cheap paper, and you may 
get some blinds to put on the windows. You may go to 
; Thornton’s drug store and get you a hand lamp if so be 
you want to keep up your studies. You may get a little 
table to match your bed at Jefferson’s, and a chair, and then 
I feel you’ll be better fixed than you’ve ever been before.” 

He locked the store for the night and carried Jezebel 
across the street, where he formally presented her to the 
druggist. 

The next morning Mahala entered Peter Potter’s 
grocery with an order to give to Peter, but when she saw 
Jason behind the counter, she went to him with it instead. 
As she handed the slip to him she said: “You’ll have to 
hurry, Jason, or you’ll be late to school. I missed you 
yesterday.” 

Jason slowly shook his head. To have saved his life he 
could not have kept a couple of big tears from squeezing 
from his eyes and rolling down his white cheeks. He 
turned his back and swallowed hard. He fought with all 
his might to wink away the tears. Mahala looked at him 
in consternation. She could plainly see that he had 
suffered terribly since she last had seen him. All the rising 
tide of fair play, of compassion in her heart, surged up to 
her lips and she began to quiver. 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 129 

“Oh, J asonl” she cried. '‘What happened to you? 
What did they do to you?” 

Then Jason turned to her. 

"Nothing,” he said. "They didn’t get me, but it’s no 
use for me to go back to school. I’d be expelled before 
noon, you know I would.” 

Mahala stood still, thinking. She lifted her clear, steady 
eyes to the equally clear, steady eyes of the boy before her. 
"I’m afraid you would, Jason,” she said softly. "You 
shouldn’t have hit him.” 

Jason considered that a minute and then he said con¬ 
clusively: "Yes, I should have hit him. What I did that 
was wrong was to throw something and hide among the 
bushes. If I had been a man I’d have beaten him as he 
deserved with my fists on the street. It was not because 
I was afraid of him; it was because I dared not be seen 
where I was. You understand don’t you?” 

Mahala stood so still that it scarcely seemed as if she 
were breathing. 

"Yes,” she said in a hushed voice "I understand.” 

At those words of comfort the look on Jason’s face 
changed to one of tormented heart hunger. He said 
abruptly: "I can’t tell you all that happened. Junior’s 
father came to our house threatening to kill me. If you 
pass the bank to-day, you may notice that the Senior 
Moreland has had an accident. That other time he came 
to our house, up to my room, and beat me almost to death. 
This time I flung a stool at him half way up the stairs and 
jumped from the window. Whatever is the matter with 


THE WHITE FLAG 


130 

him is what I did to him. But I got my punishment fast 
enough. I thought I’d be hanged for killing him. I 
stayed all night in the woods and it was cold and awful.. 
I went back to find Marcia gone and the house empty, but 
Eve got a chance to work here for Peter.” 

Then Jason stopped and shut his mouth and held it stiff 
and tense, and by sheer will power, he kept back the im¬ 
pending tears. A slow red had crept into his cheeks and 
there was colour in his lips. Mahala was hurt intensely. 
Without a thought for anything, she crowded close to 
Jason. She laid her hands on his sleeve. 

Across the grocery Peter Potter had been watching 
them intently. The street was full of people. Two 
women were heading toward his door. He walked back 
and placed his body between Mahala and Jason and the 
line of the door. He laid one arm across Jason’s shoulder 
and then he said to Mahala casually: “Nowyou had better 
step along to school, little lady. Jason’s a good boy. 
I’m goin’ to fix him a room above the grocery wEere he can 
study his books and keep up with his lessons at night. I’d 
be deeply obliged, and so would he, if you could manage 
to run in once a week and tell him how far his class has 
gone with the lessons.” 

Instantly Mahala stepped back. She would not ven¬ 
ture another look at Jason, but she met the eyes of Peter 
frankly, while in her most gracious manner she held out 
her hand. 

“Thank you very much, Peter,” she said, “I think it’s 
splendid of you to help Jason, because you and I know 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 131 

that when he is the smartest boy in the class, he shouldn’t 
be forced to quit school.” 

She turned and started from the grocery. Half way 
down the aisle, and directly facing the women who were 
entering, she wheeled, with a graceful gesture of remem¬ 
brance. 

“ Peter,” she called in her clear voice, “ Mother says 
that she hasn’t had a bite of such delicious ham between 
her teeth in two or three years as those last ones you got 
from the country. She wants you to save another one 
for us.” 

Then she smiled on both the advancing women. “Good 
morning, Mrs. Sims. Good morning, Mrs. Jordan,” she 
said in her very best manner. “I was telling Peter to 
save another one of his delicious hams for us. You really 
should try them.” 

Then Mahala went on her way to school, and she failed 
in her lessons all day because her mind was not on her 
work. She longed to ask her mother several important 
questions, but dared not on account of the bird and 
Junior’s injury. She was afraid to ask the questions to 
which she wanted answers of Mrs. Williams, for fear she 
would mention to Mahala’s mother what she had been 
asked. She dared not tell that Jason had been forced 
from school, lest he be connected in the minds of her 
parents with Junior. For many days she carried a head 
full of disquieting thought, a heart of aching protest. 

Mrs. Sims bought one ham, Mrs. Jordan bought two. 
After they had gone, Peter Potter planted himself in 


l 3 2 


THE WHITE FLAG 


front of Jason and shook his head sadly. Then he said: 
“Now look here, my lad, don't you get any silly notions 
into your noddle. You’ve got to understand that the 
richest and the prettiest girl in this town ain’t in any way 
connected with you. She’s sorry for you, same as I am, 
because she knows you ain’t gettin’ a square deal.” 

Jason answered quietly: “I know, Peter. You needn’t 
worry.” 

He went into the back room and sat down on a pickle 
keg, and with a brush and a can of black paint, on a 
smooth piece of pine before him, he began to paint. 
After he had worked for half an hour, Peter Potter tiptoed 
up behind him and looked over his shoulder. He read 
upon one piece of pine: “I dare you to look at this and not 
want to eat it!” and on the other: “We have turned over 
a new leaf. Have you?” Peter slipped away and im 
dulged in the unusual occupation of deep and concen¬ 
trated thought. His eyes were following Jason while he 
cleaned out one of the show windows, set the new sign of 
challenge in it, and surrounded it with bread, cake, cookies, 
and every delicious food in the grocery that he could dis¬ 
play in the open. Through the other freshly washed 
window, the passer-by might read the leaf sign and see an 
assortment of cheese and pickles, and half of a ham that 
looked as pink as a piece of coral framed in a broad white 
ring of sweet, sugar-cured fat. A freshly dusted coffee 
canister stood near it. A big box of lima beans flanked 
it on one side and the brown and gold of smoked herring 
was on the other; along the back, an open keg of white* 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 133 

fish and another of mackerel, with samples of their con¬ 
tents attractively displayed. 

Peter Potter stepped outside to reconnoitre. As he 
went, he noticed that the grime of years had been re¬ 
moved from his doors, which revealed the fact that they 
seriously needed a coat of paint. He looked through the 
windows with the fresh signs surrounded by such food as 
he did not know that he possessed, because he never had 
seen it so displayed. He stood there in the morning sun¬ 
light intently studying each of the windows. Presently, 
he realized that he was not alone. Two women with their 
market baskets on their arms had been attracted by the 
new display. He heard one of them say to the other: 
“Why, do you know, we ain’t had mackerel in a long time, 
and there’s nothing I like better.” 

“And doesn’t that ham look good?” said the other. 
“What about some of them limy beans with cream and 
butter on them? Let’s go in.” 

Peter stepped forward and opened his door. 

“Ladies,” he said in his politest manner, “I’ve turned 
3ver that new leaf for sure and certain. I’m going to show 
this town what really good eating is. Walk right in and 
see for yourselves whether what I’m tellin’ you isn’t the 
truth.” 

Then a shadow fell across Peter Potter’s shoulder. He 
looked up, quite a distance up, to find himself in what to 
most of the village of Ashwater was the portentous pres¬ 
ence of the village banker—of less portent to Peter 
Potter than to many others, because while Peter had fallen 


THE WHITE FLAG 


i34 

into second place through lack of initiative, he was not in 
debt. He did have a balance in his favour, but for reasons 
of his own, his balance was not in the bank of Martin 
Moreland. Peter followed Martin Moreland through the 
door. He had difficulty in keeping the lines of his rotund 
face in order. His soul was bathed in a secret flood of 
pleasure. He could not remember having been so pleased 
in years and years as he was now pleased to see for himself 
the substantial surgical bandage swathing the headpiece 
of the suave banker, and in noticing that his right hand 
was thrust into the front of the double-breasted coat that 
he wore to reinforce the impression of authority and cir¬ 
cumstance that he desired to convey to his fellow men. 

And Peter knew, also, that it was time to set his feet 
very firmly upon his own floor and to unchain that bull¬ 
dog credited to the possession of every Briton by birth, 
whether he be in his native land or the land of his adop¬ 
tion. Luckily, Peter had his fair share of canine inclina¬ 
tions in fine working order because of some years of disuse. 
He knew perfectly well that Martin Moreland was not in¬ 
terested in his new signs and his attractive display of food. 
He knew that he had entered his place of business in order 
to search his aisles with keen eyes and see for himself if 
Jason were working there. Peter’s eyes were sharply 
watching Martin Moreland’s face as Jason came down in¬ 
side the counter on his way to the scales bearing a couple 
of dripping mackerel upon a sheet of wrapping paper. 
Peter’s heart turned over in his body and then stood still 
when Jason, looking up from the scale of weights, encoun- 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 135 

tered the glaring eyes of the banker fixed uponTim, and 
said smoothly and evenly: “Good morning, Mr. Moreland. 
Til take your order as soon as I finish with these ladies.” 

Now Peter knew that Martin Moreland was not ac¬ 
customed to waiting till ladies had been served, especially 
if the “ladies” carried market baskets on their arms and 
wore white aprons and cheap shawls across their shoulders. 
To use Peter’s own description of the situation to his wife 
that night, he “was havin’ a bully time.—Had to turn 
away for a minute to keep from snortin’ right in More¬ 
land’s face.” 

The banker followed Peter down the aisle and jostled 
him roughly with his elbow as he said to him: “Now you 
look here, Peter Potter. Answer me this. Who’s run¬ 
ning this town?” 

A very devil of perversity possessed Peter, for he an¬ 
swered: “Well, if you really think you are, your head 
looks like you’re makin’ a bally mess of it.” 

It had been evident to the employees of the bank that 
the attempted hold-up that Martin Moreland reported 
had upset his temper to quite as great extent as it had dis¬ 
figured his head and his influential right hand. There 
was nothing soothing to the ragged Moreland nerves in 
Peter’s retort. 

“I came in here,” said Martin Moreland, “to give you 
just fifteen minutes to get that scum of the brothel out of 
your store.” 

Peter Potter cocked his head on one side and looked at 
Martin Morelands 


THE WHITE FLAG 


136 

“Martin,” he drawled slowly, “ain’t you makin’ a fine, 
large mistake? Didn’t you forget to study your books 
before you came rampagin’ into my place of business? 
As I recollect, I don’t owe you a red cent. You ain’t even 
one of my reg’lar and influential customers. They’s only 
one bill on my books that I’m carryin’ in your name and 
tain’t anything I’m proud of. I could spare it without a 
mite of trouble. Before you undertake to run my busi¬ 
ness, go back and stick your nose well dowm in your own. 
I ain’t goin’ to turn Jason out, and if you undertake to 
bother him, I got this same private account, that I’m 
going to increase against you a little in about a minute, 
that’d look peculiar to the deacons of your church and to 
all and sundry. If it’s the same to you, I wish you’d 
step out the way of my reg’lar customers!” 

Peter Potter swung his front door wide and held it open. 

In rage too deep for speech, Martin Moreland turned 
and started from the grocery, but he was forced to stand 
aside, for at that minute, Rebecca Sampson, with a smile 
of youthful innocence on her face, bearing her white flag 
over her shoulder, filled the doorway. 

She looked straight at Peter Potter, and as an evidence 
of a custom between them, she held out her white flag and 
Peter Potter bowed his bald, pink head and stepped under 
it with the kindliest kind of a “Good morning!” The 
change in his voice and in his manner broke the nerve of 
Martin Moreland, already at the breaking point. The 
oath he uttered was shocking. Startled, Rebecca pushed 
back her bonnet and looked up at him. A flash of loath- 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 137 

ing, of anger, crossed her face. She caught the white 
symbol to her breast and edged to the farthest possible dis¬ 
tance from him permitted by the width of the store. She 
made her way back to where she was accustomed to being 
served, muttering imprecations upon the head of Martin 
Moreland that were quite equal to Martin’s best in strong 
provocation. 

In the high tide of anger, he took one step toward her. 
The resistant force with which he came in arresting con¬ 
tact was nothing less than the sturdy frame of Peter Potter 
in defensive attitude. Peter looked up at Martin More¬ 
land with fire in his eyes and a sneer on his lips. 

“Get it through your pate,” he said tersely. “I’m one 
man out of a few in this town that’s not a mite afraid of 
you. If we come to a show down, I’ve got something to 
show that would interest the rest of the town, I vow! 
I’ve asked you once to leave my store; now I wish you’d 

do it!” 

Martin Moreland rushed through the door and turned 
in the direction of the bank, where he collided with 
Jimmy Price. Jimmy, on his way to work, had been in¬ 
terested by the extremely arresting pictures presented by 
the windows of Peter Potter’s grocery that morning. 
Jimmy had started to work with the feeling that he was 
comfortablv fed, and had discovered, as he viewed the 
display windows, that he was hungry. He found his 
mouth watering for half a dozen different things. With 
his feet planted widely apart and either hand at his waist 
band, he was giving himself over to the gustatory delight 


THE WHITE FLAG 


138 

of imagining which feature of the window display he would 
most rather have served him piping hot in his wife’s best 
brand of cookery. With eyes of longing he was studying 
the pink ham, the blue-and-silver mackerel. He had al¬ 
most decided that the mackerel, boiled free of salt, slightly 
browned in butter, with a baked potato and a cup of coffee, 
would be wholly satisfying, when he innocently resolved 
himself into the immovable force coming in contact with 
a movable body. 

Jimmy stood the impact amazingly w T ell. Martin 
Moreland glanced off him and reeled to one side. Jimmy 
was rather substantial; in that instant his person converted 
itself into a materialization of the last straw for Martin 
Moreland. Here w’as a creature, shaped like a man, 
wholly at his mercy. The banker doubled his disabled 
hand into a fist, with which he launched a crashing blow* 
in the direction of the most substantial part of Jimmy’s 
anatomy. Jimmy had recovered from the mackerel 
sufficiently to realize that it was the mighty banker 
who had collided with him, while the blow had careened 
him to one side. Through daily manipulations of hoe, 
rake, and sickle, Jimmy had become almost a boneless 
creature. He evaded the menace as lightly as he sank to 
work with sheep shears or trowel, so that the fist of opu¬ 
lence shot over him and struck the window casing instead 
with sufficient force to break open the slightly set wounds, 
wrenching from the lips of its owner a hyena-like howl of 
shredded anguish. 

For one moment Martin Moreland was too badly hurt 


VERDICT GOES AGAINST JEZEBEL 139 

to think of his position or his dignity—matters of his most 
constant concern. He was almost reeling with nausea and 
spleen. He felt for his hat to see that it was set as straight 
as possible above his bandages, and arranged his coat. He 
thrust the hand, through which wiry slivers of pain were 
shooting, into his bosom. He started toward the bank in 
what he hoped was his most dignified manner. 

Jimmy, completing the dive he had made to escape the 
arm of malevolence, came to an upright position at the 
middle of the step leading to the grocery. He did not in 
the least understand why, in the “land of the free and the 
home of the brave/’ he might not be permitted to stand on 
the sidewalk and contemplate the deliciousness on display 
in Peter Potter’s window if he chose. He did not under¬ 
stand why the august banker should not have been paying 
sufficient attention to where he was going not to collide 
with inoffensive human beings wholly within their rights. 
He did not even try to understand why Martin Moreland 
had launched a blow at him with a heavily bandaged 
hand, but it had caused hatred to flare in his heart. 
He resolved, that if he ever got a chance, he would 
show Martin Moreland that he was just as good as any old 
banker. He wondered about the heavily bandaged head. 
As he looked after the retreating figure, Jimmy became 
aware, as he always was aware of any slight chance to be in 
the limelight, that a number of people on the street and 
at the doors and windows of the different stores, were 
watching the proceeding with intense interest. Immedi- 
ately, Jimmy straightened his figure, felt for his hat, set 


THE WHITE FLAG 


140 

his coat, and thrusting one hand into the front of it, 
strutted down the street in such exact imitation of the 
stride of the banker that a roar went up the length of the 
block; the louder people laughed the more exaggeratedly 
Jimmy kept up his imitation. 

Martin Moreland was conscious of being the butt of 
that shout of laughter. He was certain that the creature 
he referred to as the “town monkey’’ was performing 
some absurd antic behind his back which was making him 
the one thing he loathed being above any other—a 
laughing stock. His inherent pride was too strong to 
allow him even to glance behind him. He would infringe 
on his dignity if he permitted himself to pay the slightest 
attention to what he mentally denominated “the rabble.” 
Exactly why the Senior Moreland should have felt in his 
heart that the “ boys grown tall ” among whom he had been 
born and had lived all his life, were “rabble” would be 
very difficult to explain. He was perspiring freely with 
pain, with nervousness, while his heart was almost suffocat¬ 
ing him with anger as he mounted the steps and made his 
way between the huge bronze dogs guarding the portal of 
the Ashwater First National Bank, Martin Moreland, 
President. 


CHAPTER VI 


The Golden Egg 

B Y WHAT she could see in the October moonlight 
of the open spaces, Marcia Peters, pounding over 
the highway, surrounded by her belongings, imag¬ 
ined that she was on the way to the second largest town 
of the county, Bluffport, a dozen or so miles from Ash- 
water. She recognized the village when she was driven 
into it. She saw that she was passing the business part 
of the town and the better residences, and at last, as in 
Ashwater, she found herself on the extreme outskirts. 

The dray stopped before a small house. The drayman 
unlocked the door, carried in, and with small ceremony, 
dumped her clothing and furnishings on the floor. Then 
he climbed on his wagon and drove away without having 
spoken a word. 

Marcia closed the door behind him, and from force of 
habit, turned the key. She had been riding through the 
night until her eyes were accustomed to the darkness. 
She had no provision for light, but through the uncurtained 
windows she could see enough to distinguish the mattress 
of her bed. As she was desperately tired, she pulled it to 
a bare spot upon the floor, hunted a pillow, and lying down 
in her clothing, covered her shoulders with her coat, and 



i 4 2 THE WHITE FLAG 

mental strain culminated in the blessed surcease of tears. 

Marcia whimpered to the darkness: “What had I to do 
with it ? What is fair or just about treating me like this ? ” 

And again: “Where in the world can Jason have gone? 

I didn’t think he’d have the spunk. He might have killed 
him.” 

And later: “After the wreck of my life, after all the 
lies he’s told me—to be cast off* among strangers like this— 
I might have known!” 

Then a last sobbing breath: “I did know. It’s been 
coming for a long time. This is only a poor excuse—I 
did know!” 

She was awakened in the morning by a burning ray of 
sunlight falling on her face. At first she was too dazed to 
realize where she was or how she came to be there. Slowly 
she arose and went to a window. She saw that she was 
on a pretty street of a village, the outskirts of which gave 
promise of being more attractive than had been her corre¬ 
sponding location in Ashwater. Turning slowly, she went 
through the small house. There were only three rooms, 
but they were much more attractive than the rooms in 
which she had been living. Mechanically she began pick¬ 
ing up the expensive furnishings of her private room that 
had been hurriedly bundled together and dumped roughly 
anywhere there was space to drop them. In working at 
this business a few minutes, she collected her thoughts and 
remembered that she had been through tense excitement 
and nerve strain. She was dreadfully hungry. Through 
no fault of her own that she could recall, she had been 



THE GOLDEN EGG 


i 43 


picked up in one place and set down in another as if she 
were a piece of furniture instead of a woman endowed with 
some degree of intelligence. She had not been asked 
whether she would go, or, if she must move, where she 
wanted to locate. She had not been given time to exer¬ 
cise any care with the really beautiful things which had 
furnished her personal room. She had only a small sum 
in her purse. There was no one in Bluffiport with whom 
she was acquainted. For over fifteen years she had cared 
for Jason. She had become accustomed to him. One 
of the very greatest fights of her difficult life had been to 
keep herself from becoming fond of him. The threat that 
he would be taken from her any day had been constant. 
Dimly she had realized for a long time that this hour was 
coming; and now it had arrived. For a mistake of her 
^outh, for the giving of her heart when only her body had 
been coveted, she had paid the price of menial position, 
of isolation, of spiritual degradation. She realized that 
speedily she must face the town asking work with which 
to keep up her long-time pretense of being self-supporting. 

Her stomach reminded her that she must have food, or 
very speedily, torturing headache would ensue. Marcia 
sat down on the mattress, took her head between her 
hands, and for the first time in eighteen years thought 
about herself instead of Martin Moreland. Suddenly 
there came to her the sickening realization that she was 
no longer young. Looking her mental problem in the 
face, she admitted that she was thirty-six. As youth was 
reckoned in her day, a woman was considered reasonably 


i 44 THE WHITE FLAG 

aged at forty. No doubt this was Martin Moreland’s 
first step in letting her know that her reign was over. In 
retrospect, what a sorry reign it had been!—veiled suspi¬ 
cion, mental humiliation, isolating employment, heart- 
hunger for freedom to lift up her head and walk abroad 
with pride. She felt reasonably certain that the problem 
facing her now was not one of further concealment, but 
the necessity of being equal to taking over the entire care 
of herself and making provision for hopeless old age. 

Under the urge of hunger, she arose, found her hat, 
straightened her clothing as best she could, and hunted 
her mirror. Setting it up, she studied herself, not the self 
that Jason had known for nearly sixteen years, but the 
secret self which was her real self—Marcia Peters without 
the disfiguration of unbecomingly dressed hair and con¬ 
cealing clothing. 

Every fibre of womanhood in her being rebelled against 
a return to the disguise in which she had faced Jason and 
Ashwater all her life with Martin Moreland. In starting 
a new life, in strange environment, whether as formerly 
or alone, why should she not appear before the people 
as she was? Why should she not seek occupation less 
humiliating than that of washing the dirty clothes of 
another village? Staring into the mirror and thinking, 
Marcia began pulling out drawers from her dresser, and 
when she emerged from the house presently and locked 
its door behind her, she was not a figure that Jason would 
have recognized before his night of illumination. 

She followed the street to the heart of the village, and 


THE GOLDEN EGG 


i 45 


entering a restaurant, secured her breakfast. Then she 
decided, under the spiritual reinforcement that developed 
from nourishing food, that she would at least step into a 
few of the stores in Bluffport and look around her. Possi¬ 
bly she could summon courage to ask if any of them were 
in need of help. There, too, was her needle. She knew 
herself to be expert with that. With small practice in 
fitting, she could make dresses for other women as beauti¬ 
fully as she made them for herself. Why not a room over 
some of these down-town stores, a modest sign announcing 
herself as a dressmaker? Some attractive, progressive 
occupation, the stimulus of ever so small a degree 
of human association, some relation—no matter how 
remote—to the lives of other people. Never before had 
she allowed a cloud of doubt and protest to gather to a 
storm head. Now the culmination came quickly in a 
tempest that shook her being. She knew that she was 
facing men, walking straightly; she felt as if she were at 
the mercy of a tornado, half-blinded, feeling her way 
before her with protesting, outstretched hands. For the 
first time in her thwarted, unnatural life she needed friends 
so badly, that she felt the despair and the hunger of that 
need, and while she walked mechanically, as the storm in 
her heart grew in intensity, she realized that even more 
than she needed friends, she needed God. That need made 
her think of Rebecca, scorching under summer suns, 
struggling through winter snows, on her self-imposed task 
of urging her world to pass under an emblem of purity 
—poor Rebecca, demented, isolated, searching, ever 




THE WHITE FLAG 


146 

searching, for what? Preaching—scourged by the whips 
of adversity into thrusting her timid self before the gaze 
of her world, preaching purity—why? Who sent her on 
those missions? Marcia said to herself: “At least, it is 
a mercy that her brain is dulled. Maybe she does not 
suffer mentally.” 

As she went slowly along the street, after a time she 
found herself interestedly studying the windows she passed. 
Her feet stopped in front of a small wooden building 
centrally located. In either window of it, flanking the 
entrance door, there were examples of exceedingly attrac¬ 
tive fall millinery miserably displayed. Marcia gripped 
her purse tighter. 

“A veil. I’ll say I need a veil,” she told herself. 

Then she opened the door and stepped inside. Her 
quick eyes searched the length of the store on either hand. 
As she looked her fingers itched to use a dust cloth, to 
pick up the really beautiful hats and display them to ad¬ 
vantage, to rearrange the ribbon counter so that clashing 
colours would not set her teeth in protest. 

She glanced around her, and seeing no one, she slowly 
walked to the back of the store. Everywhere it was 
stamped with what Marcia in her soul denominated 
“skimpiness.” Even the hats that had been conceived 
in beauty, fell short of culmination because of cheap ma¬ 
terial, too frugal use of trimming. Pausing near the door 
that opened into the back room, Marcia looked ahead, 
and there she saw the form of a small woman, sitting 
beside a table piled with a disorderly array of wire forms 


THE GOLDEN EGG 


i 47 


and linings, ribbon and velvet, and glaring autumnal 
flowers. Her arms were crossed upon the table, her 
head buried in them, her shoulders shaking with sobs. 
For one long minute Marcia surveyed the bowed head; 
then she slowly turned her back and started down the 
aisle. 

“Hm-m-m-m,” she said softly. “Two of us. I wonder 
what's the matter with her?” 

She made her way to the front door and opened it; then 
she closed it with sufficient force to be heard the length 
of the building, and with firm steps she went toward the 
back room again. Half the length of the aisle, she leaned 
on a display case, drumming with her fingers. Without 
turning her head, from the corner of her eye, she saw the 
woman in the back room rise and dab frantically at her 
face with her handkerchief. Presently, she came toward 
Marcia and asked in a voice she was making visible effort 
to control: “Was there something?” 

Marcia looked at her intently. “Drab” was the ad¬ 
jective that sprang to her mind. Hair lacking the lustre 
of life, skin needing manipulation and the concealments 
of pink powder, deep facial lines of anxiety, eyes red with 
futile tears, a disappointed flat chest, rounded shoulders; 
a woman bilious from improper food and lack of exercise. 
Marcia smiled brilliantly. The smile was child of the 
thought that had just occurred to her. Washing might 
be a disqualifying occupation socially, but the bent back, 
the rise and fall over the board, the muscular wringing, 
the stretch to the line in hanging out and taking in. the 


THE WHITE FLAG 


148 

steaming open of the pores of the face and neck, the exer¬ 
cise on foot, the swing of the iron—washing had no social 
standing, but daily exercise the round of the year at its 
exactions never bred a Nancy Bodkin. Marcia could have 
wrung Nancy like a wet sheet and hung her in the fresh 
air and sunshine to her great benefit. Suddenly, she was 
thankful for the steaming and exercise of every muscle 
of her body that had made and kept her a creature of fresh 
face and perfect health. 

“Yes/’ she said deliberately to Nancy, “there are a 
number of things. I wanted to see if I could find a veil. 
I'm a stranger in town. I came this morning. I intend 
staying here. I noticed what a good central location 
you’ve got and I wondered whether you’d like to rent me 
half of your space and let me do dressmaking—or, maybe, 
you’d like a partner in the millinery business?” 

The woman behind the counter stared at Marcia with 
widely opened eyes while her lower lip drooped. 

“You—you’re a milliner?” she asked. 

“No,” said Marcia, “I’m not a milliner. I never made 
a hat in my life. But I can make stylish dresses. I do 
know how to keep a room clean, how to display goods in 
an attractive manner.” \ 

“Do you know anything,” asked the woman, her hands 
gripping the inner edge of the showcase, “about keeping 
even—bills, and money, and things like that?” 

For the first time, in she could not remember when, 
Marcia laughed aloud. Laughter was an unaccustomed 
sound on her lips. When she heard the tones of it, she 


THE GOLDEN EGG 


149 

was so shocked that she stopped abruptly as if she had 
committed an indiscretion. 

“Yes,” she said, “I do know enough about business to 
run a place like this without the least difficulty. To tell 
the truth, Fve had a lot of schooling on how business 
should be done to be successful. What have you been 
doing? Letting your customers take away your goods 
without paying for them, and now the bills are due, and 
you’ve no money to meet them?” 

The woman nodded. 

“Hm-m-m,” said Marcia. “Well, I could go out and 
collect all that I could pry out of people. I could clean 
up this place. Maybe I could convince your banker that 
he’d be safe in letting you have what you’d need to tide you 
over till we could get things started on a new and safe 
basis. Would you like to have me come in with you and 
try to help you into really prosperous business?” 

Suddenly the little woman across the counter, clasping 
a pair of needle-roughened, shaking hands against her de¬ 
frauded chest, looked with the beseeching eyes of a starving 
creature at the face of the woman opposite her. 

“Oh, would you ? Oh, would you, please ?” she begged. 

Marcia was taken unaware. She did not know that 
there was a soft place remaining in her heart capable of 
the response she felt herself making to that artless appeal. 

“I certainly would,” she answered. “I’d be mighty 
glad for the chance. I don’t know a thing in the world 
about you. You don’t know a thing in the world about 
me. Shall we agree to take each other on trust, to ask 


THE WHITE FLAG 


150 

no questions, but start from now together and see what we 
can make out of life?” 

“I’d be tickled to death!” said the little woman, reck¬ 
lessly toppling preconceptions and precautions of a life¬ 
time. 

“Is there room for me here?” inquired Marcia. 

“Come and see what you think. And my name is Miss 
Nancy Bodkin,” said the milliner, leading the way to 
the back room. 

“Very well, Miss Nancy,” said Marcia. “My name is 
Miss Marcia Peters. Let’s explore your living arrange¬ 
ments.” 

Then she followed into the work room and found that 
there opened from it a bedroom sufficiently large for two 
people, and back of it was the combined dining room and 
kitchen; in which Miss Nancy Bodkin had been existing 
for many years. Looking about her, the fingers of the 
capable Marcia tingled for order, cleanliness, fresh wall 
paper and paint, but she sensibly reasoned that these 
things could come later. 

“You know the ropes here,” she said. “Find me a 
drayman. I’ll go and bring my things and we’ll begin 
business right away.” 

That w T as how it happened that an hour later Marcia 
was back in the house in the suburbs with a stout drayman 
standing at her elbow. There was no possible way in 
which the drayman could know that Marcia was saying 
in her soul as she handed him an article, “Soapsuds,” 
or that, she was saying as she discarded a certain piece of 


THE GOLDEN EGG 


151 

furniture or attractive clothing, “Scarlet.” All he real¬ 
ized was that the woman was making a division of the 
goods before them, and that the greater number and the 
better part of the things he saw, she was leaving. 

When Marcia had satisfied herself, she found a sheet of 
paper and a pencil and she wrote: ‘ 4 I have bowed my head 
and passed under the White Flag. I have taken nothing 
that was purchased with your money, since you are far 
poorer than I.” There was no beginning to the note and 
no signature. 

When the drayman had carried the last load from the 
house, Marcia locked the doors on the inside. She propped 
the note in a conspicuous place on one of the pieces of 
furniture she was leaving and laid the key beside it. Then 
going to the kitchen, she raised a window and climbing 
from it, closed it behind her and followed down the street 
to the millinery shop. 

There was such a fluttering in the breast of Nancy 
Bodkin that she could scarcely breathe. She was scared 
to death over what she nad done. Why should a woman 
as attractive as this one, and having as fine clothing, want 
to live with her and to share her business? She felt that 
she had been wildly impractical. She should have con¬ 
sulted her minister and her banker and several of her best 
customers. She should have learned who the woman was 
and where she came from. And just when she was in a 
panic of uncertainty and nervous doubts, Marcia returned 
and lifted the hat from her head. She ran her fingers 
through her red-gold hair and drew a deep breath. 


152 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“Now, then, in about two shakes we’ll get right down to 
the business of straightening you out,” she said. 

Nancy, a lean doubter, the victim of frustrated nature 
and business unsuccess, heard in golden wonder. Such 
assurance! So heartening! After all, whose business was 
this save her own? Why should she start any one to 
gabbling? Why not dignify herself and her affairs by 
reticence? Possibly the good God had seen fit to answer 
in this way the salt-tinctured appeal she had been clammily 
venturing in frank disbelief that He really would hear or 
answer when Marcia appeared. What if He were greater 
than she had thought? What if He had heard and cared? 
Such strength! Such energy! So capable! Some one to 

share the long, lonely hours- Ask questions that 

might prove disastrous and spoil things when they were 
none of her real business? She guessed not! What was 
that about taking the gifts the gods provided ? Who cared 
a whoop concerning the past of the gosling that had de¬ 
veloped into the goose that laid the historical egg? It was 
the egg that really mattered—the egg! 

Miss Nancy vibrated; she positively fluttered. Think¬ 
ing of eggs made her want to cackle, but since it was the 
golden egg of a goose she craved—how did a goose voict 
rejoicings on such a momentous achievement? If she 
quacked. Miss Nancy was quite willing to quack. What 
she lacked was knowledge, not incentive. 

All the time the drayman was carrying in furniture and 
bundles. Marcia opened a dresser drawer and took there¬ 
from a dress, an apron of clean calico, and a pair of easy 



THE GOLDEN EGG 


i 53 


shoes. Standing in the back room, she stripped off the 
clothing she was wearing and put these on instead. 
Nancy was struggling to keep from asking Marcia where 
she came from, why she had brought furniture before she 
knew for certain that she would find work, but the lure of 
the Egg was upon her. She looked at the arms and shoul¬ 
ders and the curves of Marcia’s bust with eyes of frank 
envy. 

“My goodness, you are the prettiest thing!” she said. 
“And your clothes are so tasty.” 

Marcia smiled quietly, thinking of certain garments she 
had discarded. 

“Now, the first thing to do is to arrange this bedroom 
and kitchen the best we can to accommodate my things,” 
she said, “then we’ll begin at the front and go straight 
through. When I’ve gotten everything clean, and in 
order, then you can tell me about who owes you and where 
they live and I’ll see what I can collect. And then, we’ll 
try to arrange the show windows more attractively, and 
since I can’t make hats, maybe I’d better try them on and 
sell them, while you go on making them. You really 
do make beautiful hats, but be as speedy as you can, be¬ 
cause I feel it in my bones that I am going to sell lots of 
them.” 

Then, with strong arms and assumed assurance, coupled 
with inborn abhorrence of dirt and disorder, Marcia Peters 
advanced to the rescue of the Bodkin Millinery. 

The first visible sign of any change in that establish¬ 
ment came to the town of Bluffport when a good-looking 


THE WHITE FLAG 


i54 

woman emerged from the door with a bucket of foaming 
suds, a rag in her hand and a towel over her shoulder, and 
by standing on an empty packing case for necessary 
height, she polished the glass fronts and the glass of the 
door to iridescent sheen. After that it was evident from 
the outside that the activities of the newcomer included 
the vigorous use of a rag-covered broom on the ceiling and 
the side walls, the inner glass of the door and windows 
following. And then the shelves and the cases came in for 
their share of cleaning. The next day the front windows 
were filled with an appealing array of fall and winter hats 
judiciously and advantageously displayed. Between the 
stands that held the hats there wound lengths of ribbon 
of alluring colour and texture, while here and there were 
masses of colour from roses of velvet, the glitter of beads 
and bright leaves. 

Straight back through the building went Marcia, every 
hour growing more interested, every hour given to in¬ 
tense thought as to what could be done, how it could best 
be done, and what the utmost financial return that could 
be extracted from it might be. One hard day’s w r ork con¬ 
sisted in emptying the bedroom, thoroughly cleaning it 
and rearranging it with such of Marcia’s possessions as 
she had purchased herself. A small table that held a lamp 
was installed in the centre of the room, comfortable chairs 
placed on either side of it. The beds were attractively 
made and covered. Then the kitchen received attention. 

The next Bluffport saw of the new venture was Marcia 
again mounted on her packing case with a bucket of white 


THE GOLDEN EGG 


i55 

paint and a brush, energetically applying it to the window 
casings and the door. Pleased with results, Marcia reck¬ 
lessly painted as high as she could reach and then realized 
that the remainder of the false front, which reached two- 
story height with no backing in the dubious assumption 
that the building appealed to the eye of the beholder as 
what it was not, was out of her province. She had 
funds to hire a painter to complete the job, so she used 
them, although Nancy protested that she would pay half. 

By that time, the change in appearance of the Bodkin 
Millinery was so great that parties interested in fall mil¬ 
linery and innovations, were beginning to come in. In 
the most attractive dress she possessed suitable for such 
use, with her really pretty hair drawn back loosely and 
coiled becomingly on her head, Marcia proved herself 
equal to the tongue of each newcomer. She had the 
advantage of not being taken unawares. She knew how 
the wolves of society harried the sheep of adventure; she 
had no intention of becoming their prey. Who she was, 
where she had come from, why she was there, she evaded, 
as slickly as the dews of night roll from the cabbage leaf of 
dawn. The qualities of satin and velvet, the colouring of 
ribbons and flowers, she found engrossing subjects. She 
had a way of picking up a wreath of artificial flowers and 
twisting the leaves into the most attractive shapes. Be¬ 
fore she offered any hat for sale, she set it upon her own 
head and walked up and down behind the counter, turn¬ 
ing and twisting to show the customer how it looked upon 
the head of a woman. When the customer had tried it 


THE WHITE FLAG 


156 

upon her own head, if it did not fit or was not becoming, 
Marcia said so frankly. In these cases she ended by 
telling the purchaser that the shape of her head and her 
face were so individual that the only thing to do was to 
build a hat to suit her. She was capable of picking up a 
piece of buckram and with the shears deftly cutting there¬ 
from a pattern for a hat, that with a little twist here and 
there, and trimming, would evolve into a shape that 
comfortably fitted and greatly enhanced the facial lines 
for which it was intended. Often she suggested a change 
in hair dressing, at times made a friend for life by deftly 
making the improvement herself. 

It took Marcia six weeks to make Bodkin’s Millinery 
the most attractive hat store in the flourishing town of 
Bluffport. With the first money that the firm could spare, 
the entire front of the building got a second coat of paint 
and the interior both paint and paper. The one thing 
that surprised Nancy Bodkin and caused the townspeople 
a minute of wonder, was the fact that when the freshly 
painted sign went up, it was an exact duplicate of the old 
one. Said Nancy: “Now that sign must have your name 
on it, too, and from the start we must share equally in the 
orofits. It’s a sure thing that all the work you are doing 
and the wonderful way you can sell things, is worth as 
much to me as the use of the building is to you.” 

But Marcia said authoritatively that she thought the 
best thing to do was merely to go on using the old sign, 
with which people were familiar. She had noticed that 
human nature was so perverse and contrary that it did 


THE GOLDEN EGG 


157 

not take kindly to changes. She thought the sign had 
much better be left merely “Bodkin Millinery. ,, 

Marcia had her surprise, equally as great, from an en¬ 
tirely different source. It had two ramifications. For 
days, at each opening of the door, her eyes had turned 
toward it, while fear gripped her heart, but as time went 
on and she neither saw nor heard from Martin Moreland, 
she concluded that she had been right in her surmise. 
He was as sick of his part of their bad bargain as she had 
become of hers; he was probably as glad to give freedom 
to her as she had been to accept it. 

The other thing which amazed Marcia unspeakably was 
the fact that she was deriving intense enjoyment from the 
life she was living. There had been no sufficient reason 
why she should not go occasionally to the church services 
that Nancy attended. It seemed ungracious to refuse. 
It was good business to go. Adroitly Nancy adduced 
reasons as to why it would be better economy to run into a 
mite society or a church supper for a meal than to take 
of their time to prepare their own food, while they were 
benefiting the church and charity organizations as well. 
On these occasions she made a point of introducing Marcia 
to every man and woman with whom she was acquainted 
—and her years of business in the village had made her 
acquainted with every soul who homed there and hundreds 
from the country as well. Presently, Marcia found her¬ 
self stopping for a minute at the bank to say a word about 
the weather or political conditions; occasionally business 
men dropped in to solicit a subscription to some enter- 


iS8 


THE WHITE FLAG 


prise the town had undertaken. In a short time, Marcia 
was feeling thoroughly at home. She was really enjoying 
the life she was living. She was interested in the people 
she was meeting; she was truly concerned about what they 
were doing. In her heart she knew that she was delighted 
to return to church as she had gone in her girlhood. One 
point she made definite in her mind and kept scrupulously. 
She never opened her lips to ask a question or to take the 
slightest interest in anything that might have been related 
to the life of Nancy Bodkin previous to their arrangement 
of their partnership. Naturally, she set the same seal 
upon Nancy’s lips that she wore upon her own. 
i Nancy, frail in body and in parts of her brain, was sur¬ 
prisingly strong in others. In the back of her head she 
knew that when a woman of Marcia’s appearance and 
ability walked into such a shop as she had been keeping, 
and regenerated it and straightened the business into i 
hopeful concern in a few weeks’ time, she was not an or¬ 
dinary woman; she had reasons of her own for being where 
she was and doing what she did. But the results were 
so gratifying to Nancy Bodkin that she shut her lips 
tight and drove her capable needle through flower stems, 
folded velvet, and buckram with precision and force. She 
said to her heart: “I don’t care where she came from. I 
don’t care who she is. I don’t care what any one thinks 
about her. She s awful pretty. She’s smart as a whip. 
She’s clean as a ribbon, and what’s it of my business, or 
any one else’s except her own, as to why she’s here? I 
am good and thankful to have her, and there had better 


THE GOLDEN EGG 


159 


not any one poke around and hurt her feelings or they’ll 
get a piece of my mind. The present and the Golden Egg 
are good enough for me.” 

That night Marcia capped the climax that she had 
reached in Nancy Bodkin’s heart by a masterly stroke. 
In the privacy of their mutual room, after the store was 
closed for the day, she washed Nancy’s hair, dried and 
brushed it to silkiness. The following morning she curled 
it and laid it in becoming waves and braids upon her well- 
shaped head. She applied some of the powder that she 
used upon her own nose to the nose of Nancy Bodkin, and 
performed a sleight-of-hand miracle upon her lips and 
cheeks. When Nancy looked into her mirror, she did 
not know herself. She did not ever want to know herself 
again as she had been. She was so perfectly delighted 
with what she saw within her grasp by a few months of 
work, that she had no words in which to express her feeling. 
The next thing she knew, Marcia came into the store with 
a piece of goods that she cut up, and in spare time, fash¬ 
ioned into a most attractive dress for Nancy. 

That did settle the matter. Marcia might talk if she 
wanted to talk; she might keep her mouth shut if she so 
desired. It was patent that she was perfectly capable, 
honest, and attractive in appearance. Very shortly 
Nancy Bodkin worshipped her as she never had wor¬ 
shipped any human being in all her life. These feelings 
broadened and deepened because she realized, whenever 
she walked abroad attractively clothed and with all of her 
best points pronouncedly intensified, that people showed 


i6o 


THE WHITE FLAG 


her a deference and a kindliness that she never before had 
experienced. In a bewildered way, Nancy slowly figured 
out the situation. If she had spent a small share of the 
time on herself that she had been accustomed to spending 
on hats for her townspeople, a larger share of their respect 
would have been bestowed upon her. It was a new view¬ 
point for Nancy. She had been thinking that she might 
earn the highest esteem by spending herself upon her pro¬ 
fession to the exclusion of everything else, and now she 
was forced to learn, by overwhelming evidence, that the 
degree of respect she received from the village was going 
to depend very largely upon the height of the degree to 
which she respected herself. 


CHAPTER VII 

Field Mice Among the Wheat 

I T IS a truism that time is fleeting, while never does 
it flee on such rapid feet as during school days. When 
Mahala became convinced that it might be best for 
Jason s self-respect and for his chances in life not to at¬ 
tempt further attendance in a school subjected to the 
cruelties of Martin Moreland, she undertook, in her own 
way, to superintend his education. 

While in her classes, Jason easily had stood foremostj 
it had not been in her power to surpass the grade of the 
work that he did. In his absence, she found it possible 
to attain higher marks than Susanna or the most ambitious 
of the boys. The thing that Mahala never realized was, 
that whether her work was the best in her class or not, so 
long as her father was on the board it was so graded by 
a line of teachers who were accustomed to seeing her in 
the lead in every other activity among the children of her 
own age in Ashwater. 

What Mahala did for Jason was simple enough, possibly 
not vital to him. With a firm determination, candles, and 
kerosene, he might have equalled what the other pupils 
were accomplishing in school, working in the room over 
the grocery at night. Faithful to his promise, Peter walled 


THE WHITE FLAG 


162 

off a room of generous dimensions for Jason, papered its 
walls and ceiling freshly, while the boy himself put a coat 
of new paint on the woodwork. 

After the first month of experiment, and steadily follow¬ 
ing down the years, Peter Potter paid him monthly a fair 
share of the proceeds of the business which prospered re¬ 
markably with Jason’s assistance. Peter never objected 
when he found one of Jason’s school books lying on his 
account desk or Jason deep in the book when he had the 
store cleaned and arranged to such a state that he felt he 
might use a few minutes for himself. Both knew that 
Jason’s spare time was secured through deliberate planning 
of his work. Peter never knew at what hour Jason arose, 
but he did know that each morning when he stood in front 
of his store, he would find a fresh and attractive display 
of provisions and a new and luring sign containing some 
quirk or jest that caught people’s attention and turned 
their footsteps into his door. 

Among this daily increasing fleet of footsteps attracted 
by the window displays, the catchy signs, and the quick 
and efficient services of Jason aided by a rejuvenated 
Peter, who had taken a reef in his trousers and consented 
to wear a washable coat, there came once a week the 
daughter of opulence. Usually she arrived with a slip in 
her hand, ostensibly to order groceries for her mother. 
At times she walked in frankly. It was at Peter’s sug¬ 
gestion that her endeavours for Jason were made under 
cover of a screened space where the desk bearing Peter’s 
ledgers and account books was ranged. Its bill-papered 


FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 163 

grating gave them privacy while Mahala each week mark¬ 
ed in Jason’s books the extent to which the lessons in his 
class had progressed. Then she remained a few minutes to 
give him a hint as to how a difficult equation worked out 
in algebra; to help him over a knotty place in physical 
geography or astronomy, where the class had used authori¬ 
ties other than their school books and had kept notes. 
These she loaned him, and she took pains as she set them 
down in school to use great precision and fully elaborate 
points she well understood, that they might be clear to 
Jason. 

Exactly why she took the trouble to do this, Mahala 
did not concern herself. She did it persistently, in the 
full knowledge that neither her father nor her mother 
would have approved, had they known. Mostly Mahala 
was willing to work diligently to earn the approval of her 
parents; but there were times when Elizabeth and Mahlon 
Spellman were enigmas to their daughter. She heard her 
father talk daily about brotherly love and charity and saw 
him truly love no man, saw him give only in public and 
when the gift would be talked about and redound to his 
credit for the length of the county. She heard her mother 
delicately voice the sentiment: ‘'Love thy neighbour as 
thyself,” when the girl could not help knowing that in 
reality her mother would be deeply shocked at the thought 
of such a thing as loving her neighbour. The truth was 
that she had no use for her neighbours either on the right 
hand, or the left, or fore or aft. Her chosen friends in the 
village were progressive people of financial circumstance 


164 THE WHITE FLAG 

and social position. The admirable precepts laid down by 
Mahlon and Elizabeth had been familiar to Mahala from 
her cradle. She had believed in her youth that her father 
and mother were always right, always consistent, always 
kind; she accepted their doctrines as her own law of life. 
But with Mahala “love thy neighbour” and “all things 
whatsoever” were not mechanical mouthings to make 
a good impression. They were orders which she, as a 
small soldier of the Cross, undertook to obey. 

So, as the years went by, in daily contact with her par¬ 
ents, Mahala learned to watch them, to study them, and 
finally, God help them!—to judge them. By and by, 
there were times when her eyes narrowed in concentration; 
at rare times her lips opened in protest that she speedily 
learned was utterly futile. She soon found out that they 
had laid out their course and were following it in a manner 
which they deemed consistent. She was not permitted 
to speak if her father raised his hand. That sign for silence 
she never had dared disobey. She learned also that she 
might better save her breath than to use it in speech 
when Elizabeth's lips set in a thin, narrow line and her 
eyes hardened to steel-gray. Because she knew that the 
uplifted hand and the tight lips would be inevitable should 
her father and mother learn that she was helping Jason 
with his lessons, she took good care that they did not 
find it out. She openly rejoiced to them over the changed 
conditions in Peter Potter's business. She carried home 
mouth-watering descriptions of the food displayed in his 
windows. Sometimes she repeated the wording of a plac- 


FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 165 

ard that amused her. Once, in laughingly recounting 
at the supper table how in Peter Potter's window there 
stood a huge, golden cream cheese surmounted by a neat 
sign which read, 

Good people, this cheese, 

Begs that you sample it, please, 

she said that people were standing on the street laughing 
about it when it really was so simple that there was noth¬ 
ing to laugh over. 

‘‘That's exactly the point,” said Mahlon. “It is so 
everlastingly simple that it becomes clever. It puts the 
burden of the request on the cheese and then leaves the 
cheese to prove itself. I'll wager it's a good one. Did 
you get a slice?” 

Then Elizabeth lifted up her voice and remarked: 
“‘Clever’ is a word I never would have thought of apply¬ 
ing to Peter Potter.” 

Mahlon responded: “And I wouldn’t have thought of 
attributing those lines to Peter Potter. You can rest 
assured that they emanated from the brain of that long¬ 
headed young Peters, who seems to be getting on better 
in the world since his mother deserted him than he ever 
did before.” 

“It’s a pity,” said Mrs. Spellman, “that he thought 
best to quit school.” 

Mahala was like a bird with an eye on each side of the 
head. With one she was watching her father, with the 
other her mother. When no comment came to her 


166 THE WHIT]? FLAG 

mother’s last statement, her sense of justice forced 
speech. 

“It’s more than a pity,” she said earnestly. “It’s 
burning shame. Jason always had the highest grades in 
the class. He was a good boy, but because he couldn’t 
be well dressed and have money to spend, because he was 
forced to carry our and other people’s washings, he was 
picked on and his life made miserable. For some reason 
that I don’t understand, Junior Moreland, backed by his 
father, always abused him shamefully.” 

She stopped suddenly, realizing that the next question 
would be: “Why?” She felt that she did not understand 
the secret workings of the “why” and did not dare repeat 
such parts of it as she had witnessed. 

When the “Why?” came, as Mahala had feared it 
would, she answered quietly: “I suppose it’s because 
Martin Moreland and Junior have no sympathy with 
unsuccess. It offends their eyes, and stinks in their noses. 
They strike at it as instinctively as they’d strike at a 
snake—even if the snake happened to be performing the 
commendable service of cleaning field mice from the 
wheat.” 

Then Elizabeth Spellman laid down her fork. 

“Good gracious, Mahala!” she cried. “S-st!—I forbid 
you ever to use such a dreadful word again! Where did 
you absorb such disgusting ideas? Snakes and mice in 
the wheat! I sha’n’t be able to eat another bite of bread 
this meal! In fact, my supper is spoiled now.” 

Then Mahala laid down her fork, dropped her hands in 



FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 167 

her lap, and judged her mother with such judgment as 
she never before had rendered against her. 

The next time she delivered an order at Peter Potter’s 
grocery, she went deliberately and without the slightest 
regard as to who might be in the store at the time, and 
standing before Jason at the desk bearing the big ledgers, 
she spent an extra fifteen minutes telling him in detail 
things that had come up in the classes that she thought 
'would interest and help him. There was a tinge of red 
on her cheeks and a sliver of light in her eyes when she 
told him concerning non-venomous snakes and field mice 
among the wheat and cautioned him not to strike until 
he knew the identity of a species. 

Jason looked at her with adoration in his heart, com¬ 
mendation in his brain. She was the daintiest thing. 
She was the prettiest thing. She was the fairest thing in 
her judgments. 

He said to her laughingly: “You know, there aren’t a 
large collection of snakes running up and down these 
aisles, and the ones I do come in contact with I am not 
supposed to hit, no matter how venomous I know they 
are.” 

Mahala smiled because she realized that Jason was mak¬ 
ing an effort to be amusing. This happened so very sel¬ 
dom that she felt he should have a reward when he tried. 
Usually, Jason’s face was extremely grave. Few days 
passed in which, in some way, he was not forced to feel 
the secret power working against him. He did not tell 
Mahala that twice since he had been with Peter Potter 


168 


THE WHITE FLAG 


the store had been broken into at night by some one who 
was interested in finding Peter’s old account books, since 
the intruder took neither groceries nor robbed the cash 
drawer. The ledgers were safe because Jason had urged 
Peter to take them to his Bluffport bank where they would 
be secure. He did not tell her how frequently, at the post 
office, the express office, at the freight office, among the 
business men of the town, he received a rebuff the origin 
of which he understood. He avoided meeting either Mr. 
Moreland or Junior when it was possible. When it was 
not, he went straight on his way. Many times it had been 
demonstrated to him that he was working in the one store 
in Ashwater in which the power of the Morelands was not 
strong enough to throw him out. Had he been anywhere 
else, he would have lost his work, his earnings, and his 
room, speedily. The thing that filled Jason with surprise 
was the fact that while Mr. Moreland and Junior wanted 
him to be poor, without friends, without education, the 
father, at least, did not want him to leave the town; else 
he would have awaited his return and sent him away with 
Marcia when she made her mysterious disappearance. 

During the four years of the high-school course, there 
was no week in which Mahala failed to enter Peter Potter’s 
grocery under some pretext, if she could invent a pretext; 
if she could not, specifically for the purpose of keeping 
Jason posted as to what was going on in school. In this 
matter she reserved the right to use her own judgment be¬ 
cause in her judgment, Jason was not fairly treated, and 
the impulse to be fair to every one was big in her heart. 


FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 169 

In her opinion, the town was full of things that were unjust 
and unfair. People were forever standing up in churches 
and in public places prating about the poor and the down¬ 
trodden, but there was no single person, not even the 
ministers, doing the things that Jesus Christ had said 
should be done in order to make all men brothers. Her 
life was filled with preaching concerning the spirit of the 
law. She knew of no one who was following the letter— 
not even herself—as she felt she should. In self-analysis, 
her scorn included herself. 

Sometimes in talking of these things she had made bold 
to say that Rebecca, carrying her white symbol and urging 
all the people she met to cleanse their hearts, was the only 
consistent disciple of Christ in Ashwater. She was forced 
to say that laughingly, as a daring piece of impudence. It 
would have been too shocking for the nerves of Mahlon, 
Elizabeth, or any of their friends, had the girl allowed them 
to surmise that she truly felt that Rebecca, mentally inno¬ 
cent, physically clean, with the fibre of persistence so 
strong in her nature that, year after year, she undeviatingly 
followed her hard course, was the only Christ-like one 
among them. To Mahala, given from childhood to peri¬ 
ods of reflection, to consecutive thought, Rebecca came 
closer to being truly an envoy of Jesus Christ than any 
minister or deacon or church member she knew. Yet she 
had been so trained since childhood by her father and 
mother that she found it impossible to defy them openly. 
Even at times when her lips parted and the words formed, 
she had not quite the moral courage to say what she 



170 


THE WHITE FLAG 


thought and felt. The one thing that she did realize 
concerning them was that they really had persuaded them¬ 
selves that they were sincere; they felt they were right. 
Their love for her was unquestionable. She could not 
cry at them: “You drug yourselves with narcotics that 
you brew for the purpose. You lie to yourselves almost 
every time you open your lips.” In her heart she was 
hoping that a day would come speedily when she should 
be independent, when she might begin to try, by ways 
however devious, to show every one what she truly 
thought and felt. 

During the high-school years she had never once lost her 
ascendancy among her classmates. She had been so con¬ 
sistently straightforward, so frank in her likes and dis¬ 
likes, so clever when a controversy arose, that she had 
maintained the position in which her parents had inten¬ 
tionally placed her through giving her the best of every¬ 
thing and making her conspicuous from the hour in which 
a tiny ostrich feather had been attached to her quiited 
hood and she had ridden in state in the first baby carriage 
the town had ever seen—an arresting affair, ribbed top 
covered with black oilcloth sheltering the bed which was 
mounted on two large wheels having wooden spokes and 
hubs and a tiny third on the front to make it stand alone. 
The upcurving tongue ended in a cross piece by which 
Elizabeth, strong-armed with the strength of a prideful 
heart, dragged this contraption, shining with black paint, 
gay with gold lines and red and blue morning-glories, after 
her over the flag-stone and board walks of Ashwater. 


FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 171 

This was no easy work for a woman of Elizabeth’s natural 
proportions, but come what might personally, Elizabeth 
made the daily and hourly task of her life that of seeing 
that her child came first, and had the best. 

Mrs. Spellman’s deft fingers had been busy in their 
spare time for two years at elaborate embroidery pre¬ 
paring against Mahala’s day of graduation and her follow¬ 
ing advent to the best girls’ school of the land. For the 
same length of time, she and Mahala had discussed a sub¬ 
ject for the valedictory which naturally should fall to 
Mahala. Her mother had been unable to select anything 
from the store sufficiently dainty and suitable for a grad¬ 
uation dress. Mahlon had been commissioned to bring 
something especially fine from the city for this purpose. 
The best sewing woman the village afforded had been in 
the house working on the foundations of this dress. 
When it reached a certain point, Mrs. Spellman expected 
to finish it herself, ably assisted by Mahala whose fingers 
had become so deft in time set apart each day for their 
especial training, that, as a needlewoman, she was expert 
in the extreme. 

Even while absorbed with this delightful work, both of 
them could not help noticing that Mahlon was unduly 
nervous and excitable; that slight things irritated him; 
while they confided to each other that they were surprised 
over the fact that Papa was getting almost stingy. He 
was not generous as he used to be. He was constantly 
cautioning them against undue expense. Mother and 
daughter were considerably worried about a new dry-goods 


172 


THE WHITE FLAG 


emporium that had located in the town almost immedi¬ 
ately opposite Mr. Spellman’s place of business. The 
Emporium was a brick building, aggressive with marble 
and paint; the stock of goods fresh and elaborate. Va¬ 
guely Mahlon Spellman’s womenfolk began to feel that 
his business might possibly be undermined by these new 
competitors, who had no scruples of an old-fashioned kind 
in their dealings with the public. They represented 
modern methods. Gradually it became Mahlon’s part 
to stand in his store and sadly watch many of his best 
customers going in and out of the opposite doors, 
and he had been more and more frequently compelled 
to seek Martin Moreland for larger loans to meet the 
payment on heavy orders of goods that he was not selling 
because the cheaper stock handled by his competitors 
looked equally as attractive, but could be sold for less 
money. 

In the guest room, the graduation dress stood on a form 
on a sheet tacked on the floor, carefully covered with 
draperies to keep it fresh, awaiting the finishing touches 
that Mahala insisted upon adding herself. Standing be¬ 
fore it one evening, contemplating the folds of its billowing 
skirt, the festoons and ruffles of lace, Mahala smiled with 
pride and delight. It was to be such a dress as Ashwater 
never before had seen. The only cloud that was on Ma- 
hala’s sky twisted into the form and took the name of 
Edith Williams. Edith had more money at her disposal 
than Mahala. Her clothes were more expensive. The 
reasons w T hy her appearance was never so pleasing as 


FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 173 

Mahala’s were numerous. She remained out of school 
for long periods of time, partly because she really did not 
feel well, mostly because she was sour and dissatisfied and 
did not try to overcome any indisposition she felt by giving 
it the slightest aid of her mentality. The aunt who pam¬ 
pered and petted her kept the village doctors constantly 
dosing her with pills and tonics, and allowed her to do pre¬ 
cisely as she pleased on all occasions. She went upon the 
theory that if she bought Edith the most expensive cloth¬ 
ing, she was the best-dressed child. She followed this 
theory for years despite the fact that her friend, Elizabeth 
Spellman, was constantly proving to her that the best- 
dressed girl was the one whose clothing was in the best 
taste and most becoming to her. 

Edith and her aunt loved heavy velvets, satins, and 
cloth of rich, dark colours. And these, piled upon Edith’s 
anaemic little figure, served rather to disguise than to em¬ 
phasize any glimmering of beauty that might have made 
its manifestation. 

As she stood before her graduation dress, Mahala, with 
her alert brain and keen habit of thinking things out, 
figured that very likely the dress which Edith would not 
allow her to see and about which she refused to talk, would 
be white, since white had been decided upon for all the 
class, to Edith’s intense disgust. She knew that white 
was not becoming to her dark face and hair. Mahala, 
in figuring on how to hold her long-time supremacy on the 
night of her graduation, depended upon Edith and her 
aunt to select heavy velvet or satin, and to have it made 


i 74 THE WHITE FLAG' 

in a manner that would be suitable for a prosperous 
grandmother. She softly touched the veil-like fineness 
of the misty white in which she planned to envelop herself 
when she stood forth to deliver the valedictory. 

Mahala was perfectly confident that she had figured out 
the situation as it would develop. When she and the girl 
who always had been supposed to be her best friend, faced 
each other on their great night, Mahala believed that she 
would appear mist enshrouded. She was fairly confident 
that Edith would be looking dark and sour, too heavily 

and richly dressed in expensive materials and the height 
of poor taste, 

A shadow fell across her work and she turned to find 
her father watching her. With an impulsive gesture, she 
stuck her needle into the breast of the form and ran to him, 
throwing her arms around his neck, rumpling his hair, 
and drawing him into the room. She began lifting the 
skirt and turning the form on its pedestal that he might 
see hei handiwork, how charming the gown she was evolv¬ 
ing. He stood quietly beside her, assenting to her eager 
exclamations, worshipping her pretty demonstration of 
her pride in her art and her good taste. 

<( “ It: ’ s ver y loveI y> little daughter, very lovely,” he said, 

“but aren’t you almost through with putting expense on 
it?” 

Mahala faced him abruptly. 

Papa, she said, “is business going badly with you? 
Are those cheap-johnnies that have started up across the 
street taking your customers away from you? Are you 


FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 175 

only worried, or is there truly a reason why we should be¬ 
gin to economize ?” 

Mahlon Spellman suddenly turned from a thing of flesh 
and blood to a thing of steel and iron. He opened his lips. 
This was his chance to gain sympathy and love, even help 
—and to save his life, he could not speak. He had been 
the be-all and the do-all for Mahala throughout her life. 
It had been his crowning pride and his pleasure to give her 
practically everything she had ever wanted. To tell her 
that he was in financial straits, that her freedom might be 
curtailed, that her extravagances might be impossible, 
that he was in danger of failing just when her hour and her 
greatest need for the lovely things of life were upon her, was 
a thing that he found himself incapable of doing. As he 
stood in silence, he felt her warm, young body pressing up 
against his. 

“You know, dearest dear,” she said quite simply, “that 
if you’re in hot water, I’ll help you. I won’t go to 
college. I’ll stay at home and take care of you and Mother 
and myself, too.” 

Mahlon was perfectly delighted with this exhibition of 
love and sacrifice on Mahala’s part. Instead of telling 
her the truth, he told her a good many deliberate lies, and 
when the glow of rejoicing over her words had died down 
somewhat, he realized that he had been a fool for not avail¬ 
ing himself of the opportunity that she had offered him, 
and he sank back to intense dejection, which the girl dimly 
realized as he left the room. 

That night she said to her mother: “Mama, do you 


176 THE WHITE FLAG 

realize that the front of our store is the only thing on Hill 
Street that hasn t changed during the past four years?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Elizabeth Spellman, as¬ 
perity in the tones of her voice, on the lines of her face. 

I mean, said Mahala, ( that one of these new inset 
fronts with show windows that you look in as you walk 
back to the doors and a fresh coat of paint, and new sign 
lettering, would help a whole lot to make the front of our 
store look more like that new one across the street.” 

“You haven’t thought of anything new or original,” 
said Elizabeth. “Your father and I have realized this and 
we have talked it over several times. The high-class goods 
that he buys have got to be sold for a price that will make 
him a reasonable profit. He cannot lower rates like those 
cheap cut-throats that started up opposite him. He 
doesn’t think that he can afford the changes he would 

like to make, much as you would like to see him make 
them.” 

I don t know, said Mahala, “but that it would be a 
good thing to sacrifice something else and make those 
changes. You know how down and out Peter Potter was 
when Jason Peters quit school and went in with him and 
made things hum. He began with fresh paint and ended 
with a fine new store. Since they put up that new corner 
building, just look how everything has gone with them. 

I think they are doing twice the business of any other 
grocery in town right now, and I think it’s Jason Peters’s 
brain that’s at the back of most of it. Every one has come 
to look for the signs that are posted fresh in their windows 


FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 177 

nearly every morning. This morning one window was 
full of food that no one could see without a watering 
mouth, and the other window was full of the most attrac¬ 
tive lamps and a display of every kind of soap you ever 
imagined, with a big sign reading: ‘Let us feed you, soap 
you, light you, and love you. ’ You needn’t tell me Peter 
Potter did that.” 

“It would be a good deal better,” said Mrs. Spellman, 
“if Peter Potter would put some check on that youngster. 
He’s too cheeky. Imagine him sticking up a sign an¬ 
nouncing that he’ll ‘love’ us!” 

Mahala giggled: “It isn’t supposed to be Jason who’s 
saying that. It’s supposed to be Peter Potter’s business. 
Isn’t it conceivable that Peter might be trying to express 
his love for his fellow men by giving them clean, whole¬ 
some food and the conveniences of life at a reasonable 

• 3 yy 

pricer 

“Oh, yes, it’s conceivable,” granted Elizabeth, “but 
it’s unthinkable.” 

Mahala laughed outright. 

“Mother,” she said, “you are becoming absolutely pro¬ 
found.” 

“Well, what I am trying to point out,” said Elizabeth, 
“is the fact that Peter Potter in his dirty grocery, with his 
run-down stock, and in his baggy breeches and his col¬ 
larless gingham shirt, didn’t put his business where it is 
right now. Look at that delivery wagon—red as a beet, 
with gold and black lines on it and a canvas top, and a 
horse like a circus parade! And look at Peter Potter in a 


178 THE WHITE FLAG 

\ 

wash coat and a new building, and the most attractive 
show windows this town has ever seen!” 

"I’ve been looking at him,” said Mahala. “He’s been 
on the upgrade for four years, and I think that it’s the re¬ 
sult of Jason and the cleanliness his washerwoman mother 
instilled in him, and his willingness to work, combined with 
Peter s horse sense in giving him freedom to try new 
things. I think that if the same kind of cyclone should 
blow through Papa’s store, it would be a good thing. I 
wish to goodness Jason was in Father’s store and would 
freshen things up for us as he has for Potter’s Grocery.” 

Oh, my soul!” cried Elizabeth Spellman, aghast, “you 
don’t truly mean that you wish that?” 

“But that is precisely what I do mean that I wish,” 
insisted Mahala. “I wish anything that would keep 
Papa from looking so worried and being so peevish as he is 
lately. And as for having Jason in his business, I can’t 
see how Papa could be hurt, while Peter’s new grocery 

proves what help did for him. Have you seen Tason 
lately?” 

No, said Mrs. Spellman, I haven’t seen him, and I 
shouldn’t look at him if I did.” 

“It might be your loss at that,” said Mahala deliber¬ 
ately. “In four years he’s grown very tall and not having 
to be on the run constantly to deliver heavy baskets and 
be on time to school, he’s gotten more meat on his bones 
and his face has filled out, and a sort of gloss has come on 
his hair. Because Peter has had the manhood to befriend 
him, he speaks and moves with a confidence he didn’t 


FIELD MICE AMONG THE WHEAT 179 

have when every one was treating him a good deal like a 
strange dog that might develop hydrophobia.” 

My soul and body! said Elizabeth in tense exasper¬ 
ation. Mahala, you do think of the most shocking things! 
Why in the world should you mention strange dogs and 
that loathsome disease in my presence?” 

Mahala looked at her mother reflectively. 

“Why, indeed?” she said earnestly. “Forgive me, 
Mother!” And then she turned and went from the room. 

Elizabeth Spellman was pleased. She thought her 
daughter had apologized for her lack of delicacy. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A Secret Among the Stars 

W HILE the general appearance of improvement 
and progress was becoming distinctly visible and 
encouragingly permanent on the leading business 
street of Ashwater, precisely the same thing was happen¬ 
ing in its nearest neighbouring village, Bluffport. The old 
board side walks had given way to flagging. The muddy 
streets had become paved with cobblestone. The new 
brick bank and the hardware store and two dry-goods 
stores radiated affluence. A fine, big high school stood 
near the centre of the town and the spires of three churches 
lifted their white fingers toward the sky as if to write 
thereon in letters large and plain: “This is not a Godless 
community/’ 

Perhaps nothing new in all the village so became it as 
the proud brick structure that arose on the corner where 
Smithley s junk shop had sprawled its disfiguring presence 
to the mortification of the city that was beginning to lift 
its head and to take pride in demolishing fences and 
spreading abroad smooth lawns brocaded with beds of 
gaudy flowers. And this new building which had risen like 
magic on one or Bluffport s most prominent corners gave 
over its second story to Doctor Garvin, who really cured 

180 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 


181 


» 


a large assortment of Bluffport’s ills, and Squire Boardman, 
who really settled a large proportion of BlufFport’s 
troubles. Their offices were across the dividing hall from 
each other. They were a pair of honest and respectable 
men, each of whom was trying, in his own way, to do his 
share for the improvement of Bluffport and to acquit his 
soul in a graceful manner of the obligation to love his 
neighbour as himself. Neither the doctor nor the lawyer 
felt that he was loving his neighbours in the degree in 
which he loved himself, but they did feel that they were 
making a sweeping gesture in that direction, which was 
infinitely better than apathy. Also, they regularly paid 
a reasonable rent, which contributed to the prosperity of 
the owners of the building. 

The lower story was occupied by, and the entire building 
belonged to, Nancy Bodkin and Marcia Peters, and was 
so entered in the records of the office of the county clerk. 
The corner location gave them advantageous front-display 
windows and a large amount of side space. These win¬ 
dows proved that, to an exclusive and attractive line of 
millinery, there had been added fashionable neckwear 
for the ladies; scarfs of silk; breakfast shawls of Scotch 
plaid and flowered merino; fancy hosiery; pincushions 
and toilet articles, and a seemly collection of decorated 
china. 

The window displays were attractively managed. In¬ 
side the millinery was kept in drawers and curtained cases. 
Several big mirrors and a number of chairs constituted 
the greater part of the furnishings. Any one stepping into 


182 THE WHITE FLAG " 

this room had almost an impression of entering a well- 
ordered home. 

The back part of the building was taken up with Nancy’s 
work room; the living arrangements, which had increased 
to a separate room for each of the friends, a most attrac¬ 
tive sitting room, a small dining room, and a tiny kitchen. 
For four years these two women had lived and worked 
together. They had engaged in small financial enterprises 
and taken part in the civic life of the town. They could 
be depended upon to superintend attractive and unusual 
decorations when the principal street needed to become 
festive upon some great occasion. They could be de¬ 
pended upon to do their fair share for the churches, for 
the schools, for the Grand Army, for their political party. 
Under the guiding hand of Marcia, Nancy had bloomed 
like the proverbial rose lifted from the hard clay soil of 
lingering existence and set where its roots could run in 
congenial earth, watered with affection, nourished in the 
sunshine of love. The change in Nancy had been so 
convincing that Bluffport only dimly remembered a time 
when she had been an anaemic, discouraged, overworked 
little woman. At the present minute, she was not over¬ 
worked. She had her work so beautifully in hand that 
she could accomplish it and find time for rest and rea¬ 
sonable recreation. She had nourishing food, skilfully 
prepared, and these things wrought a great physical 
change. She was enjoying the companionship of a woman 
who was alert and eager, who felt that life owed her much 
and who was bent upon collecting the debt to the last de- 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 183 

gree, if it were a possible thing. When Marcia had fin¬ 
ished exercising all the arts of the toilet she knew upon 
Nancy Bodkin, Nancy gradually developed into an ex¬ 
tremely attractive woman. She evolved a healthy laugh 
and a contagious interest in the flowing of life around her. 

As for Marcia herself, she was in truth blooming. Such 
a huge weight rolled from her shoulders when she be¬ 
gan life in the daily living of which there was nothing 
secret, nothing questionable, nothing of which to be 
ashamed. She might look her world in the face and go on 
with her work in a healthful and prideful manner. Al¬ 
ways an attractive woman, under the stimulus of self- 
assertion and prosperity she had become beautiful. 
Natural grace had developed until she had become 
gracious. 

These two women were together every day and within 
speaking distance every night. They were making of life 
the level best thing that was possible [for either of them 
through their united efforts. Nancy was born a designer. 
Marcia had been born with executive ability. The com¬ 
bination produced as a result the attractive store, exhaling 
prosperity, and a pair of women of whom Bluffport was 
distinctly proud. The whole town was proud of the Bod¬ 
kin and Peters share of improvement on the business 
street, proud of the two good-looking, well-dressed women 
who managed their affairs so capably that they were able 
to meet their business obligations and were rapidly repay¬ 
ing the encumbrances they had shouldered in the erection 
of the building. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


184 

In this close contact, and in what the town supposed 
to be intimacy, these two women, rapidly approaching 
middle age, lived and worked together. The town would 
have been dumbfounded had it known that Nancy Bodkin 
never had asked her new partner one word concerning her 
life previous to her advent into the partnership. Con¬ 
versely, Marcia had respected the little milliner. They 
had simply begun life with the hour of their meeting and 
gone forward to the best of their combined ability. 
Neither of them had seemed inclined to be communicative 
concerning herself, and each of them had too much in¬ 
herent refinement to engage in a business that a popular 
poet of their day graphically described as the “picking 
open of old sores.” If either of them had an old sore, she 
was depending wholeheartedly upon the other to help her 
in concealing it. In breaking away from the years of her 
life with Martin Moreland, Marcia had followed an 
impulse. In her heart she had always known that this 
thing would happen some day. She had steeled herself 
from the very beginning against Jason. She did not want 
to love him; she did not want him to love her. When the 
day of separation came, as she always had felt that it 
would, she figured upon reducing the pain of it to the 
minimum. Exactly what she felt concerning the boy 
was a secret locked in her heart. Freed of his presence 
and his influence, she found that the greatest feeling 
possessing her concerning Martin Moreland was a feeling 
of fear. Twice she had witnessed his brutality toward 
Jason when to her it was without sufficient reason. She 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 185 

realized that any day the same storm of wrath might 
break upon her head for as small cause. 

When the sudden resolve had come to her, after the in¬ 
justice of being picked up bodily and forcibly without her 
consent or approval and set down among strangers in a 
strange town, there had developed suddenly in her heart a 
storm of rebellion that had ended in her seeking refuge and 
independence with Nancy Bodkin. She had no idea what 
Martin Moreland would do when he went to the house to 
which he had sent her, with the expectation in his heart 
that he would find at least one room of it to his liking and 
warm with the reception to which he was accustomed. 
She had thought that he would come to the store, and in 
the daze of the early weeks of her transplantation, she had 
lifted a set face and a combative eye every time a hand 
was laid upon the latch. 

One day she had seen Martin Moreland upon the op¬ 
posite side of the street, and sick at heart, she had fled to 
her room and thrown herself upon her bed, complaining of 
a headache. For several hours she lay there in torment, 
expecting each minute that the door would open and 
Nancy Bodkin would level the finger of scorn at her, that 
the clear light of her gray eyes would pierce her covering 
and see burning upon her breast the loathsome scarlet 
brand. But night had come and Nancy Bodkin had 
brought her a cup of tea, had brushed her hair and un¬ 
laced her shoes. 

In the days that followed, Marcia found herself still 
watching the street and the front door, but each day of her 


186 THE WHITE FLAG 

emancipation so fortified her that she began to develop 
a confidence and an assurance. She did not know Martin 
Moreland as well as she thought she did, when in the third 
year, she had definitely made up her mind that he would 
not come. She did not realize that he was the kind of a 
man who figuied in his heart that every step higher she 
climbed in the community that was so graciously receiving 
her, would make harder the fall when the day came upon 
which he decided to turn the tongue of gossip and slander 
against her. Whenever he was passing through Bluffport 
on business, he made a point of stopping on the opposite 
side of the street and taking a detailed survey of the mil¬ 
linery store. He watched from the small beginnings of 
soaped glass and painted casings, through the four years to 
the new brick building with its attractive windows. The 
first time he passed the new building, obtrusive in its new¬ 
ness, glowing with the dainty colours of its excuse for 
being, the smile on his face was a fearful thing to see. It 
was a thing shaded by such a degree of malevolence that 
his consciousness realized that no one must see it. It 
would be an outward manifestation of such an inward 
state as would shock a casual observer. Even as that 
smile gathered and broke, with the same instinct which 
prompted it, Martin Moreland clapped the palm of his 
deeply scarred right hand over his face and an instant 
later applied a handkerchief. As the smile died away, in 
its stead there came a look that was very like the expression 
on the face of a hungry panther ready to leap with cer¬ 
tainty upon an unsuspecting victim. 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 



Martin Moreland knew that, early in their separation, 
Marcia would expect him and be on the defensive. He 
figured that by waiting until the passage of time had given 
her assurance, his descent would be all the more crushing 
and spectacular. 

So it happened that Marcia occasionally saw him pass¬ 
ing upon the street and grew firm in her confidence that 
she was to go free. With the passing of the years, she 
succeeded in a large measure in forgetting her ugly past 
and allaying tremors for the future. It appealed to her 
that Martin Moreland could do nothing to hurt or humili¬ 
ate her without'humiliating himself; and that, she figured, 
he would not do. She became all the more certain of this 
because occasionally she saw Junior on the streets of 
Bluffport, and from the security of the store, she watched 
him as he walked the streets or stood talking with other 
men. 

To the observer, Junior was an extremely handsome 
man. He had his father’s height, his mother’s dark hair 
and eyes. There was a dull flush of red in his cheeks and 
on his lips. He could not have helped knowing that he 
was a handsome and an attractive figure. He could 
scarcely have helped being unmoral through his father’s 
training from his early childhood. Always he had been 
supplied with a liberal amount of money to use as he chose 
in the gambling rooms of Ashwater with the other men 
and boys. Occasionally he lost, but frequently he came 
into the bank with surprisingly large sums of money which 
he gave to his father to deposit on his account. A few 


THE WHITE FLAG 


188 

times, lounging in the bank, even during his school days, 
he had listened to discussions between his father and 
other men concerning matters of business and he had made 
suggestions so ingenious, so simple in their outward mani¬ 
festations, so astute, so deep in their inward import, that 
the Senior Moreland had been in transports. He always 
had been proud of his son. When to his fine figure and 
handsome face he added indications of shrewd business 
ability, he fulfilled his father's highest dream for him. 

Whenever occurrences of this kind took place* Moreland 
Senior immediately supplied Moreland Juniorfwith an 
unusually liberal allowance with which to cut a wide 
swath in the social life of the town. During the junior and 
senior years of high school, Junior made a practice of arm¬ 
ing himself with large boxes of sweets and huge bouquets 
of expensive flowers and going to call upon Mahala. 

Mahala always greeted him cordially, always accepted 
what he brought casually as a matter of course, but never 
with any particular show of pleasure. Having been ac¬ 
customed to the admiring glances of women and the 
exaggeratedly lavish praise of an element of the town 
greedy for his father’s money, Junior could not believe 
that this attitude on the part of Mahala was genuine. 
She must think him as handsome as his mirror proved to 
him that he was. She must see that he was tall and 
straight and shapely. Knowing the value of dry goods as 
she did, she could not fail to know that always he was 
expensively clothed in the very latest fashions sent out 
from the large cities of the East. 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 189 

A few days before Commencement, armed with a par¬ 
ticularly ornate box of candy and a bunch of long-stemmed 
roses by way of an ice box from Chicago, he made an 
evening call upon Mahala. The box of candy she set upon 
the piano, unopened. The roses she arranged in a large 
vase. She commented on their wonderful shape and 
velvet petals, the spendid stems and leaves faintly touched 
with the bloom of rankly growing things. She said that 
they were so perfect that it almost seemed that they were 
not real roses that would yellow and wither in a few days. 

They talked of the coming Commencement and Junior 
jestingly asked Mahala if she were going to allow Edith 
Williams to be more handsomely gowned than she. 
Mahala was amused that he should think of such a thing. 
She looked at him with eyes so frank that to the boy they 
seemed almost friendly. She laughed the contagious 
laugh of happy youth. 

“Now, Junior, you know without asking,” she said, 
“that if anything like that happens, it won’t be in the 
least little bit my fault. It will be because I haven’t 
sized up the situation properly.” 

“And how,” asked Junior, “have you sized up the situa¬ 
tion?” 

“I’ve depended,” said Mahala, “upon Edith running 
true to form. In a given circumstance, she always has 
done a given thing. I can’t imagine her changing. If 
she has, there’s nothing to do but accept it gracefully.” 

Junior laughed. 

“For a level head commend me to you, young woman/' 


190 


THE WHITE FLAG 


he said. '‘Now, here is a state secret. My mother and 
Mrs. Williams are great friends, and” —Junior lowered 
his voice and spoke through a trumpet made of his 
hollowed hands, giving himself an excuse to draw very 
near to Mahala—"my mother has seen the gown and she 
says it’s a perfect humdinger.” 

Mahala’s laugh was young and spontaneous and thor¬ 
oughly genuine. 

"Naturally,” she said, "it would be. I figured on 
that.” 

"And I fancy you figured,” said Junior, "on a dress that 
in some way will go just a little bit ahead of Edith’s.” 

Naturally,’” mimicked Mahala, "being Edith’s best 
friend and closest companion, I have figured on a dress 
that I hope and confidently believe will be the prettiest 
thing on the stage, Commencement night.” 

"And I haven’t a doubt,” said Junior, "but you’ve 
figured as correctly as you ever did in algebra or geometry. 
But just suppose for once in your fair young life that 
you’ve figured wrong.” 

"Well, now, just suppose,” said Mahala. "Of course 
you have figured on being better dressed by far than any 
of the other boys. And at the last minute, if John Rey¬ 
nolds or Frederick Hilton should turn up with a later-cut 
and finer goods than you were wearing, what do you think 
you could do about it?” 

"But the cases are not analogous,” said Junior. "In 
the back of my head I am pretty well convinced that the 
clothing that Edith Williams always has worn has cost 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 191 

more money than has been spent on you. That has not 
been the case with any boy of Ashwater. Father always 
has seen to it that I had the best. Where you have con¬ 
sistently gotten away with Edith has been through being 
so much handsomer, through being lovely to every one, 
and through the exercise of a degree of taste and ingenuity 
on the part of your mother and yourself, that no other 
women of this flourishing burg can equal. I haven’t a 
doubt but you’ll be the loveliest thing in the building 
the night of Commencement, but I just thought I’d come 
around and give you a hint of what you’re up against.” 

“Now that’s nice of you,” laughed Mahala, “but you 
haven t told me a thing that I didn’t know and for which 
I was not prepared. Probably your mother didn’t say, 
but I’d be willing to wager that Edith’s gown will be 
either of velvet or heavy satin, and a crowded room in 
Ashwater grows distressingly warm in June.” 

Junior threw back his head and laughed heartily. 

“Bully for you!” he said admiringly. “I’ll back you 
for a winner in any undertaking in which you want to en¬ 
gage. It would be downright mean of me to go any 
further with what Mother told me after she had seen 
Edith’s dress, but I’ll say you are a winner in drawing 
nice deductions.” 

And then Junior realized that he had not had such an 
enjoyable and friendly talk with Mahala, that she had not 
been so cordial with him, in he could not remember 
when. So he ventured further. 

“What can we plan for this summer that will be a lot of 


THE WHITE FLAG 


192 

fun?” he said. “We ought to celebrate this getting 
through with school by picnics and parties and excursions. 
It’s our time to have fun, and who's to object to our going 
ahead and having it?" 

“Aren't you going to college, Junior?" asked Mahala. 

“Going to college?" repeated Junior scornfully. “Why 
would I go to college? Which college does my father hold 
in the hollow of his hand ? Where could he pull the strings 
and make the professors dance like a pack of marionettes?" 

Mahala stared at him wide eyed, and at the same time 
she was amazed to find herself commending his candour. 

“Well, you certainly have nerve," she said. “Of course 
everybody knows the influence your father always has had 
with the School Board, and from the time we’ve been little 
children we've had demonstrated to us what your com¬ 
bined efforts could do, but I didn’t think you'd sit up and 
boast about it—openly admit it!" 

Why not?" said Junior. “What’s calculus and 
radicals and Greek and Latin got to do with figuring on 
exactly how big a mortgage it would be safe to place on 
Timothy Hollenstein's farm? I've gone through the 
motions of this school thing. I've got the scum of it. 
Did you ever see me make a mistake in addition? I'm 
not interested in subtraction, and I'm not very particular 
about division, but have you ever noticed that I'm greased 
lightning on multiplication?" 

And again Mahala laughed when she knew in her heart 
that she should do nothing of the kind. Coupled with 
Junior s physical attractions there was this daring, this 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 193 

carelessness of what any one might say or think, this dis¬ 
arming honesty concerning transactions that had been the 
width of the world from honesty or fairness. 

“All right,” she said, “don’t go to college. You’d get 
nothing out of it but the fun of spoiling other boys who 
were really trying to make men of themselves. But I’m 
gomg. I think I shall go to Vassar, and as for picnics 
and parties, I must put in the greater share of my time 
this summer in making my own clothes. I figure that 
the new store has cut into Father pretty deeply and I 
think I ought to help all I can by doing my sewing.” 

Then Junior, reinforced by the most agreeable evening 
he had ever spent with Mahala, reached over and covered 
one of her hands with his. He grasped it lightly, giving it 
a little shake as he said to her: “I have to inform you, 
young lady, that it’s written in the stars that you’re not 
going to college.” 

Obliquely Junior watched the girl, and he was wondering 
what she would think if he told her reasons that he could 
have told her, as to why she would not go to college. 

Mahala withdrew her hand under the pretext of re¬ 
arranging her hair, and laughingly remarked: “That’s very 
unkind of the stars to write things first to you concerning 
me. But, while we’re on the subject, in the epistle did 
the stars tell you what it is that I’m going to do?” 

“Certainly,” said Junior. “I hope you noticed that I 
always came the nearest to making a decent grade in as¬ 
tronomy. I have to inform you that the swan went swim¬ 
ming down the Milky Way and he told a star lily floating 


194 


THE WHITE FLAG 

there that you were going to preside over the finest house 
in Ashwater, furnished far more exquisitely than this place, 
that there was going to be a devoted lover at your feet 
and your door plate is going to read, ‘Martin More/and, 
Junior 

For one minute Mahala stared at Junior with question¬ 
ing eyes. Then she decided that to laugh was the thing, 
so she laughed as heartily as she possibly could. She 
laughed so heartily that it became an exaggeration and 
then she shook her head and said: “Put no belief in as¬ 
tronomical communications. They're too far-fetched. 
I think Vassar will suit me best and in about a week after 
Commencement I'm going to begin a trunk full of the 
nicest school clothing that has gone East in many a long 
day. And that reminds me that I've quite a bit of sew¬ 
ing to finish before Commencement, and I must be at it. 
So take yourself away, but for pity's sake, don't tell 
Edith that her aunt showed her dress. It's against the 
law and she'd be furious." 

“She’d be so furious," interrupted Junior, “that she'd 
turn a darker green than the Lord made her." 

If you want to keep up your credit for a customary 
degree of observation," said Mahala, “you’ll have to ad¬ 
mit that Edith is rapidly shedding her greenness, that she 
is rounding out. She still insists that she’s half an invalid, 
but if she'd take some exercise and forget herself as I try 

and try to make her, she’d soon be the prettiest girl you 
ever saw." 

Which proves that Mahab was strictly feminine, not 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 195 

that Junior was not eager and willing to pick up the chal- 
lenge. 

Yes, like hob she would!” he said instantly. “That 
sour green kicker would come within a long shot of being 
the prettiest girl that I ever saw while you’re in Ashwater!” 

“Well, Tm not going to be in Ashwater long,” said 
Mahala, and then you can watch Edith and see how 
fast she grows handsome. You can go and take a look 
for yourself right now, if you want to, because I really 
must get to work.” 

Junior arose and because he was accustomed always to 
think of himself and his own considerations, he forgot to 
veil the glance that he cast toward the big vase of rare 
flowers and the big box of unopened candy. A cursory 
glance, but Mahala caught it and she knew that he left 
with the idea that he had thrown away his money, and 
the merriest smile of the evening curved her lips behind 
his back, because that was precisely what she wanted him 
to think, and she hoped in her heart that he would follow 
down the street and spend the remainder of the evening 
with Edith Williams. Since they had been little girls, 
in the days of charm strings and rolling hoops, Mahala 
had known that the one boy whom Edith Williams pre¬ 
ferred above all the other boys of the village was Junior 
Moreland. She could not recall that she ever in her life 
had seen Junior extend to Edith even decent courtesies. 
He made a point of being rough with her and saying an¬ 
noying, irritating things to her, of flatly repulsing even the 
most timid advances that she might make in school or 


196 THE WHITE FLAG 

upon social occasions for his preferment. And Mahala 
pondered as she climbed the stairs with a bit of lettuce in 
her hand for the little gold bird, just how it happened that 
Edith should care so much for Junior Moreland and Junior 
Moreland should take malicious pleasure in hurting her 
feelings. 

At the window of her room, she glanced down the street. 
If Junior turned the corner, there was a possibility that 
he might delight Edith by spending an hour with her. 
But Junior went straight on to Hill Street. He made his 
way for quite a distance along it, and then turned into a 
showy restaurant on a side street. 

At his entrance two or three flashily dressed serving 
girls gathered around him. He led the way to a booth 
in the corner. Here he swung one of them to a table, took 
another on his lap, and kissing a third, he ordered her to 
go and get everything good to eat that the shop contained 
for a feast. Smilingly the owner of the restaurant en¬ 
couraged the party. If Junior was pleased, his bill would 
be larger, and this was a thing that happened frequently. 

When the food was brought, Junior unhesitatingly 
helped himself to the parts for which he cared, leaving the 
remainder for the girls to divide among themselves. He 
was familiar with them as a boy might be with his sisters, 
but he was not vulgar. He treated them lavishly, taking 
only a little of his first choice for himself. 

When his bill was brought to him, he went over the 
figures carefully, and then he forced the manager to make 
several changes. He proved conclusively that while he 


A SECRET AMONG THE STARS 197 

was willing to spend money as he chose, he was possessed 
of a close streak, and did not intend to waste it. 

His appetite appeased, he kissed all of the girls, assured 
them that he would be around again shortly, asked them 
how they would like to go to BlufFport for a ride some night 
in the near future, and going out, he rounded a corner, 
slipped up an alley, climbed a back stairway, and in answer 
to a certain number of measured rappings on a darkened 
door, was admitted to a room where a number of promi¬ 
nent men and boys of the village were playing games for 
money. 

Junior sat down carelessly, and leaning back, watched 
the games casually until he decided that he would play 
poker. By midnight he had swept up most of the stakes, 
and when the other men insisted that he should give them 
a chance to retrieve their money, he laughingly explained: 
“I’ve got to get home early to-night. To-morrow’s a 
final examination.” 

“What difference does that make to you?” exclaimed 
Anthony Jones, a schoolmate of Junior’s. “You know 
perfectly well you can’t pass in two or three branches 
unless you cheat.” 

Junior stood under a swinging lamp, lighting a cigar. He 
glanced at the boy, a smile on his handsome face. 

“My father has given old Dobson his job for the past 
four years,” he said, “and so far as I know, Dob wants it 
for four more. Why should I have to do anything but go 
through the motions ? I ought to get something out of it, 
oughtn’t I?” 


198 THE WHITE FLAG 

You ought to have to dig in and work for your grades 
like the rest of us do!” retorted Anthony. 

Junior expertly ringed his first puff of smoke toward the 
ceiling. 

“Oh, I’ll work all right when the time comes. I do 
a whole lot of thinking and scheming and planning right 
now that nobody knows anything about. I’ll work, all 
right. But the trouble with you will be that you won’t 
know when Im working and when Em not, because when 
I work it does not always show on the surface.” 

“Well, there’s one thing certain,” said Anthony, “you’ll 
work the Superintendent for a diploma; you’ll work your 
father for all the money you want.” 

Junior stuck his hands in his well-filled pockets and 
sauntered to the door. Just as he passed through it, he 
leaned back so that the full light fell upon his face and 
figure, and he laughingly inquired: “How about working 
you fellows once in a while?” 


CHAPTER IX 


Sometimes Your Soul Shows 

I T WAS mid-June before the night of Commencement 
arrived. The Methodist Church, being the largest 
suitable edifice of the town, was used for the imposing 
occasion. The lower grades of the high school and friends 
of the graduates, as well as the alumni of preceding years, 
had all combined in decorating the building for the Com¬ 
mencement exercises. The big swinging chandeliers 
hanging from the ceiling were wreathed in greenery ac¬ 
centuated with flowers. The edge of the pulpit platform 
was outlined with gaily blooming plants. The space in¬ 
tervening between that and the altar railing was filled with 
showy plants in tubs and buckets, one end finishing with 
a white oleander in a mass of snowy bloom, the other 
exactly like it except that the flowers were peach-blow 
pink. The pulpit had been removed. Back of the chairs 
for the graduating class there was a second row for the 
principal, the teachers of the schools, the School Board, 
and several ministers, and lining the wall, a small forest 
of gay leaves and bright flowers. Every window was filled 
with the lovely roses of June, with flowering almond, 
japonica, iris, and gay streamers of striped grass. 

It was the custom to hold the graduating exercises in 

199 



200 


THE WHITE FLAG 

the church, then to repair to Newberry’s Hotel for a sup¬ 
per which was the last word in culinary effort on the part 
of the owners, helped out by table decorations provided 
by the alumni and the lower classes of the high school. 
The long tables for the graduates and their parents, for the 
singers and speakers, were lovely. They were laid with 
linen that was truly snowy, with silver provided by several 
of the wealthiest families of the town, with china that came 
from the same cabinets as the silver; and these tables 
were made beautiful beyond words with great bowls of 
yellow, white, and purple wild violets, starry campion, 
anemones, maidenhair fern, and every exquisite wilding 
that knew June in the Central States. 

After the banquet, the class and its guests took up the 
une of march across the street and in the upstairs of the 
big building known as Franklin’s Opera House, they 
danced until morning. Commencement was the one great 
social affair known to Ashwater. Nothing else in the 
history of the town called forth such an audience. It 
was the one occasion upon which the church people forgot 
that the lure of the dance would imperil the souls of their 
young. They went and drank lemonade and fanned 
themselves as they sat in double rows of chairs lining the 
walls, many of them joining the dance to the mellow 
notes of a harp brought all the way from Indianapolis. 

Never was a gathering more cosmopolitan. The in¬ 
vited guests were relatives and friends of the graduates. 
So it happened that the august person of Martin More¬ 
land, the banker, might come in very close contact with 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 201 

that of Jimmy Price, general handy-man, in such case as 
to-night when one of Jimmy’s lean daughters was a gradu¬ 
ate. For once in his life Jimmy might don his wedding 
suit, accompanied by any remnants of dignity that forty 
years of playing the clown had left in his mental cosmos, 
and making an effort to be grave and correct, he might 
have this one peep at what the truly great of his town did 
when they entertained themselves. 

June in the Central States is a hot month; mid-June the 
crucial time. The thermometer is likely, at that period, 
to hover persistently at anywhere from ninety-five to a 
hundred and ten. The dew of night closely following such 
a degree of heat was sure to breed a moist stickiness that 
washed the pink powder from the noses of the august, 
and in slow streams of discouragement, saw to it that 
artificially waved hair degenerated into little winding 
rivers of despair. It was very likely to emphasize mothy 
complexions and deeply cut wrinkles by washing into 
their cruel lines white or vivid pink powder, leaving high 
promontories lacking decoration in ghastly contrast. 
To appear cool and fresh and charming upon such a night, 
was the height of triumph. It was the thing that few peo¬ 
ple even remotely hoped to do. The men frankly mopped 
their streaming faces and the backs of their necks. They 
tried to look cheerful if they found that their high linen 
collars were even half way upstanding; mostly these were 
protected by a tucked-in handkerchief until the doors were 
reached. They were often seen wiping their hands and 
their wrists with these same moist handkerchiefs, and 


202 


THE WHITE FLAG 

the ladies, in their billowing skirts containing yards upon 
yards of heavy goods, in their tightly fitting sleeves and 
waists, religiously wearing headgear, which they would 
have thought it absolutely indecent to remove, dabbled 
frantically at their complexions, the corners of their 
mouths sagged in despair as they felt the hair slowly droop, 
ing over their foreheads, while they fanned frantically 

in an effort to keep sufficiently cool to save their silk 
dresses. 

It was the custom for the omnibus from Newberry’- 
Hotel to drive to the residences gathering up the graduates 
and depositing them at the side door leading into the 
prayer-meeting room of the church, slightly before the 
time the oiganist began to play the entrance march. 

Usually the four walls of the church heard nothing gayer 
than “Onward Christian Soldiers”or “Marchingto Zion,” 
but it was conceded to the youth of the city that on Com¬ 
mencement night the organist might tackle what was 
spoken of, in rather awed tones, as “sheet music.” It was 
customary to hire, for these occasions, a graduate from the 
fort Wayne Conservatory to sing several solos. This 
marked a high light in the exercises. These graduates 
from a musical school might do the daring thing of coming 
clothed in billowing silks of peach-blow pink. In one 
instance, the crowd had lost its breath over such a dress 
glaringly trimmed in blood-red. This, in conjunction with 
a bared breast and arms, a becurled head as yellow as 
the cowslips down by the Ashwater river, had been almost 
loo much for the morality of the audience. The young 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 201 

lady had saved the situation by a sobbingly pathetic 
rendition of “When the Flowing Tide Comes In.” When 
she had her audience audibly weeping over the “ships 
that came in clouds like flocks of evil birds,” and then led 
them on to the salt-saturated ending of “remembering 
Donald’s words,” the weeping crowd so thoroughly en¬ 
joyed the performance that they forgave what they con¬ 
sidered the extreme bad taste of the blood-decorated pink 
dress. 

In gathering the graduates, it might have been instinct 
on the part of the driver, and it might have been sugges¬ 
tion on the part of authority, at any rate, it was customary 
to bring in the poor and the unimportant and give them 
this one ride of their lives in state, usually down Hill 
Street, past the bank, the main business buildings, and the 
Court House, ending at the side steps of the Methodist 
Church. After all the poor and the unimportant had been 
collected, then by degrees came the socially and finan¬ 
cially prominent, it being generally conceded that the boy 
or girl having the salutatory came next to last, while the 
valedictorian held the place of honour. 

In to-night’s exercises every former custom had been 
religiously kept and religiously exaggerated to the last 
possible degree. In the annals of the town, such a dis¬ 
tinguished class never before had been graduated. This 
class embodied the son of the banker, the handsome, care¬ 
free boy concerning whom every one prophesied evil, 
whose escapades were laughed at and glossed over as they 
would have been in the case of no other boy in the com- 


I 


204 THE WHITE FLAG 

Jk 

munity. Men who should have known better, rather 
evinced pride when Junior Moreland stopped to say a 
few words to them. It was the common talk of the town 
that the Senior Moreland lay awake nights thinking up 
ways to indulge, to pamper, his only son. The influence 
of Junior’s good looks and his brazen assurance was so 
pronounced that the whole town combined in helping to 
spoil him. Where he should have had a reprimand, where 
any other boy would have had it, Junior usually evoked 
a laugh. So he had grown to feel that he was a law unto 
himself; that he might do things which the other boys 
might not, that he was a natural leader upon any occasion 
on which he chose to lead. 

This night s class embraced Edith Williams, grown thus 
far to womanhood with most of the ills and the discontent 
of her childhood clinging to her. It was very probable 
that Edith’s first conscious thought was that she had been 
defrauded. Why didn’t God make her with a strong, 
beautiful body? Why didn’t He give her voice the power 
of song, her fingers facility for the harp or the piano that 
sne could buy if she chose? Why did He take both her 
parents and leave her to live with an uncle whom she never 
could endure, and with an aunt, sycophant to such a 
degree, that the child shrewdly suspected, from a very 
early age, that the otherwise estimable lady was hoping 
that she would die and leave “all that money” to her 
only heir, who happened to be the husband of the lady 
in question. Edith had heard about “all that money” 
ever since she had been born. She had come to under- 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 205 

stand that it could buy her the most expensive clothing 
worn in the town. It could buy her entrance into any 
gaiety taking place in any home. It could buy the most 
expensive house m Ashwater and any furnishings her 
taste might dictate. It could, in fact, buy everything to 
which she had been accustomed all her life, but it could 
not buy her the two things which she craved almost above 
life itself beauty and happiness. No one could convince 
her that at least a moderate degree of beauty lay within 
her own power. She had only contempt for a woman like 
Elizabeth Spellman, who tried to tell her that keeping 
irregular hours, practically living on cake and candy, 
that the wearing of stays which reduced her slender pro¬ 
portions to pipe-stem slenderness, were responsible for 
the things in life against which Edith most strongly re¬ 
belled. In vain Mrs. Spellman tried to point out that 
regular sleep, regular bathing, a diet consisting largely 
of fruits and vegetables, freedom of the body, and regular 
exercise, were responsible for Mahala’s bright eyes, her 
rounded figure, her hard, smooth flesh. These things 
Edith coveted to an unholy degree, but not sufficiently 
to change one wrong habit or to shake off* her natural 
indolence in order to attain them. Edith’s happiest mo¬ 
ment was, in all probability, the one in which, dressed in 
the extreme of the prevailing fashion, she lay upon a 
sofa with a box of rich candy and wickedly read a 
French novel that she was not supposed to have and that 
no one ever knew precisely where she secured. 

Commencement time marked a thrilling epoch in 


206 


THE WHITE FLAG 

•i 

Edith’s life. A few days after the great event, she would 
attain the age at which her dying father had specified that 
she should come into full and uncontrolled possession of 
his large fortune. As the time approached, Edith spent 
hours dreaming of trips to New York and Chicago, of 
the beautiful clothing that she would purchase, and how 
these advantages would certainly add to her attractiveness 
to such a degree that finally she would succeed in com¬ 
pletely overshadowing Mahala. She was so certain that 
this would be the case, that she had decided to make the 
first step the night of graduation. She had horrified both 
her uncle and her aunt by the extravagance of her outfit. 
She had persisted in making her own selections. 

Commencement night found her in a nervous state 
bordering on a sick headache. She had been absent from 
school a great deal. She never had known what her les¬ 
sons were about when they concerned mathematics, 
astronomy, or any difficult branch requiring real concen¬ 
tration and study. Her brain was almost wholly un¬ 
trained; it kept flying off at queer tangents. With the 
help of her uncle and her aunt she had succeeded in getting 
together a creditable essay which she was supposed to 
read from memory. She had gotten through it on several 
occasions with slight promptings, but in the final class 
rehearsal, she had broken down completely and been 
forced to take refuge in the written pages held by the 
professor. After that, she had really studied, but it had 
been too late. She never had made public appearances 
as had many of the members of her class because she hated 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 207 

the mental work required to commit poems or orations 
to memory. She was too indolent really to work at any¬ 
thing because she never had been taught that in work 
alone lies the greatest panacea for discontent the world 
ever has known. 

It was a general supposition in Ashwater that Com¬ 
mencement night should be the happiest period of a girl’s 
life. To many of them it was a happy period. There 
was joy of a substantial kind in the honest breast of little 
Susanna, who had been helped in a surreptitious way 
with her lessons and her clothing all through her school 
course by Mahala, and who, in turn, had worshipped 
Mahala dumbly and had returned all the help she could 
give upon knotty problems when her brain had begun to 
develop to a commanding degree. Many of the boys and 
girls who were to graduate that night had worked hard 
and conscientiously. They were proud of the new clothes 
they were wearing; eager to begin the life they had planned 
for themselves. 

This class included the daughter of the dry-goods mer¬ 
chant. No one was happier than Mahala. She had 
worked hard all her school life. She had been perfectly 
willing to receive the same help from others that she was 
accustomed to give when she was more fortunate in mas¬ 
tering a difficult problem or a perplexing proposition in 
any of her studies. Her facility in music and the super¬ 
ficial part of her education, her quickness in picking up 
hints and indirections, the clever way in which she made 
her recitations, made her vastly popular with all of her 


208 


THE WHITE FLAG 


teachers to whom she always showed a polite deference 
never equalled by any of the other pupils. 

The valedictory was hers because she had earned it, and 
for several other reasons. Her mother had kept her eye 
upon that especial honour for her only child from the day 
of her birth. She had not arisen from the sheets of ac¬ 
couchement without having decided upon a great many 
things concerning the career of her little daughter, and one 
of the essential things had been the valedictory upon the 
night of her graduation. She and Mahala engaged in a 
number of long talks concerning this momentous occasion, 
and in the seclusion of their room, she and Mahlon dis¬ 
cussed these things interminably. They were both agreed 
that Mahala must have the valedictory, quite agreed that 
she must honestly earn it. This the girl felt she had 
done. They were agreed that she must be exquisitely 
clothed. This was their part. They were unanimous 
as to a compelling subject; also she must handle it 
in an interesting manner; she must deliver her valedic¬ 
tory without a flaw in composition, delivery, or deport¬ 
ment. 

Long before the remainder of the class had even thought 
of subjects, in the secret conclaves of her family, Mahala’s 
subject had been decided upon, outlined, and developed. 
Many things she had wanted to say had been ruled out for 
reasons paramount in the minds of Elizabeth and Mahlon. 
Once or twice a week, she had been put through her paces 
either by her father or her mother, occasionally before 
both. The thing had become so habitual with Mahala 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 209 

that she recited her valedictory every night before she 
went to sleep and snatches of it were in her mind many 
times during the day. In all this intensive study, she had 
dwelt upon pronunciations, upon phrasing, and inflection 
until she really had an extremely praiseworthy offering 
at the tip of her tongue, one which either Elizabeth or 
Mahlon could have delivered equally as well. All her life 
she had been making her bow and speaking her piece at 
mite societies and tea meetings, at Sunday School festivals, 
last days of school, and Grand Army celebrations. 

To Mahala, Commencement night was not a thing of 
cold shivers, shaking knees, and throbbing heart. She 
had been trained from birth and was an adept at public 
appearances. She could recall no occasion in her life 
when she had come in contact with any of the other boys 
and girls in public in which she had not easily made the 
most attractive figure and carried off the honours. 

At the noon hour, her father had said to her: “Im going 
to stop at the Newberry House and tell the busman he 
needn’t come for you to-night. I don’t propose that you 
shall risk soiling your shoes and your dress by climbing 
into that dirty omnibus, even though there is a supposition 
that it is to be cleaned after the last load of drummers is 
taken to the train.” 

Mahala hesitated a second, then she looked at her 
father with speculative eyes. “Don’t you think, Papa,” 
she said, “that it would be better for me to go with the 
others ?” 

There were nerve strain and asperity in Elizabeth Spell- 


210 THE WHITE FLAG 

man’s voice that Mahala recognized. She gave Mahlon 
no chance. 

“Mahala,” she said, “when Papa tells you that he’s 
going to do a thing that he has studied out and has de¬ 
cided will be the best thing for you, the proper answer for 
you to make is: 'Yes, Papa. Thank you very much for your 
loving consideration.’” 

“I was only thinking,” said Mahala, “that the other 
boys and girls might resent it; that it might make them 
feel that they were unfortunate not to have a father who 
had made such a success of life that he could do for them 
the lovely things that Papa daily does for me.” 

Mahala looked at her father to see what effect this would 
have, and her heart took one surging leap and then stopped 
for an instant and stood still, frightened by the whiteness 
of Mahlon Spellman’s face. She noticed his grip upon 
the fork he was handling and that his hand was shaking 
so that he put back upon his plate the food he was intend- 
to lift to his lips. For one long instant IVIahala sur¬ 
veyed him and a little bit of the light went out of her eyes, 
the keenest edge of the colour washing in her cheeks faded. 
She saw the shaking hand, and in her heart she said: 
“Either Papa is dreadfully troubled, or he’s getting old; 
and come to think of it, he is nearly twenty years older 
than Mama. He’s been a darling papa, so I’ve got to 
begin taking extra good care of him.” Her mind reverted 
to the variety of care that always had been taken of her, 
and while she rebelled against a great deal of it, even as 
she was now rebelling against this distinction to be made 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 211 

between her and her classmates, she was placed where all 
her life she had been placed, in such a position that she 
would look heartless and ungracious to refuse. 

“I am going,” said Elizabeth Spellman, “to spread a 
sheet all over the back seat of the surrey and on the floor. 
Jemima has wiped the seats very carefully and the steps, 
and swept the carpet until there isn't a particle of dust. 
You cannot crowd into that omnibus without crushing 
your skirts. I think we can lift them in such a manner 
when you enter the surrey, that by occupying the back 
seat alone, you won’t need to sit upon them at all. It 
will enable you to head the procession down the church 
aisle with your frock as fresh and immaculate as when 
it is lifted from the form to be put upon you.” 

“Very well, Mama,” said Mahala with a little sigh. 
“It’s awfully good of you and Papa to take so much trou¬ 
ble and I do appreciate it, but I cannot help thinking it 
would be better-” 

“There, there, Mahala!” said Mrs. Spellman. 

A queer, ugly red with wdiich Mahala was very familiar 
crept into her mother’s cheeks. So nothing more was said 
on the subject until that night in the sweltering heat when 
the Newberry Plouse omnibus had pounded up and down 
and across Ashwater, picking up a red-faced boy here, a 
perspiring girl there, pausing in state before the humble 
door of Susanna and shortly thereafter before the gate of 
the banker. 

The surrey was waiting to take Mr. and Mrs. Moreland 
to the church. Junior’s mother came on the veranda with 



212 


THE WHITE FLAG 


him and stood looking him over.. Her face was very pale 
and her hands were trembling. 

“Do you think,” she questioned eagerly, “that you 
won't get frightened, that you can remember your speech ?” 

“You bet your life I can remember my speech!” said 
Junior boastfully. “When did I ever forget a speech, if 
I wanted to make one? Never broke down in my life. 
Why should I now? I’m going to try the old bank a little 
and if I don’t like it, I’m going to be a lawyer. I think it 
would be a lot of fun to be a lawyer, and you bet a lawyer 
doesn’t forget a speech. You needn’t sit and shake and 
worry, or Father either. Don’t have cold feet and hot 
sweats.” 

The driver of the omnibus halooed and called to Junior 
to hurry, that he was two minutes late. In order to show 
his authority and his position in the village, Junior de¬ 
liberately stepped inside the door. He could not think of 
a thing on earth to use as an excuse for having done so. 
His handkerchief was in his pocket, the notes for his speech 
he had placed himself in order that he might refresh his 
memory if he felt a bit rattled as his turn came to speak. 
He had no need to look in the mirror to see that he was as 
handsome as a boy well could be. His mother hurried 
after him. 

“Junior, what is it?” she cried in a panic. 

‘ fc Oh, I just thought I’d wet my whistle once more,” 
said Junior, starting toward the dining room. His mother 
hurried to bring him a drink of water, and when he was 
perfectly ready, Junior kissed her, telling her to get his 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 213 

father and hurry up because she should be in her place 
before the march down the aisle began. Mrs. Moreland, 
comfortable in the dignity of reserved seats, also took her 
time. She was to be separated from her lord who sat 
upon the platform as President of the School Board. 

She left Mr. Moreland at the side door opening into the 
small room where the official board of the church trans¬ 
acted its business. He was the last one of the officials to 
arrive. His fellow townsmen and neighbours amused 
Martin Mnreland that night. They stood so straight, 
their faces were so grave, they were gasping in the heat, 
they felt over their hair and held their heads at an angle 
calculated best to allow the perspiration to run down their 
necks without touching their stiffly starched high collars. 

In casting his eyes over the gathering, he noted with 
satisfaction the absence of his old enemy, Mahlon Spell¬ 
man. Not that Mahlon knew that he was the enemy of 
the banker. He did not. He thought that Martin 
thought that they were friends. There was no intuition 
which told him that Martin Moreland hated his precision 
of language, hated his taste in dressing, hated his poise 
and self-possession, hated to loathing scorn his fidelity to 
the paths of virtue, cordially hated any appearance in 
public that he ever had made. It certainly was unfortu¬ 
nate for Mahlon that only the spring preceding Mahala’s 
graduation his period on the School Board had elapsed 
and a new man had taken his place. 

As Mahlon made his way down the church aisle with 
Elizabeth on his arm, he was probably the only man in the 


214 


THE WHITE FLAG 


room who was not perspiring. A sort of clammy indiffer¬ 
ence seemed to have settled upon him. It was purely 
from force of habit that he ran his fingers over his hair, 
felt of his tie, and went through the old familiar gestures 
of flecking his sleeve and straightening his vest as he 
stepped into the light of the chandeliers and marched to 
the strains of the organ down to their reservations. 

The unconscious Elizabeth was in the height of her 
glory. She had waited for this, she had prayed for this; 
only God knew how she had worked for it. She had just 
accomplished the delivery of her offspring at the side door 
of the church without a fleck of dust having touched her 
shoes of white satin, without a fold or crease disfiguring 
the billowing skirts of her frock. She had done her share 
perfectly. Never a fear crossed her mind that Mahala 
would fail. When had Mahala ever failed? Why should 
she? 

As Mahala stood a second to shake out her skirts after 
stepping down, her mother had deliberately gone to the 
door and looked in upon the assembled graduates. She 
had eyes for only one figure. She wanted to see Edith 
Williams. Standing in the centre of the room, Edith 
had given her a distinct shock. 

All day the girl had been nervous, frantically trying to 
remember her speech. In the humid heat of the evening 
she had gotten herself into a closely fitting dress of heavy 
white velvet. It was a dress that a queen might have 
worn upon a state occasion. Pearl-white like the shell of 
an oyster, very plain both as to waist and skirt—a dress 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 


215 


that trusted to the richness of its material to make up for 
any lack of the elaborate trimmings of the day. As Edith 
had stood before her mirror giving the finishing touches 
to her toilet she had seen above the tightly embracing waist 
her face flushed with the strain of fear that she might forget 
her speech, her figure tense with the nerve strain of her 
unaccustomed public appearance. That minute she was 
wildly envying even Susanna who could have been called 
upon and recited any one of a hundred poems from the 
readers that had been used in the school course or supple¬ 
mentary works on elocution. The doubt and uncertainty 
in her mind had given to the girl a flashing vividness she 
never before had possessed. 

Lifting her skirts around her, she had entered the omni¬ 
bus and glanced at its occupants. She had said nothing 
until the driver turned the corner and started in the direc¬ 
tion of the church. Involuntarily she threw up her hand, 
crying: “Stop him! He has forgotten Mahala!” 

Instantly, Junior Moreland arose in his place, and catch¬ 
ing a swaying strap above his head, leaned to the opening 
beside the driver and spoke to him roughly, crying: “Here 
you! You’ve forgotten Mahala Spellman!” 

Without stopping, the driver cracked his whip over his 
team and plunged ahead. There was rather a dazed look 
on Junior’s face as he lurched back and dropped into his 
seat. Edith Williams leaned forward and with wide eyes 
looked at Junior. 

“What did he say?” she cried. 

“‘Father’s fetching her,’” answered Junior tartly, and 


2l6 


THE WHITE FLAG 


it happened that he accompanied the information by a look 
at Edith. Unquestionably he saw the lunge of her an¬ 
gered heart. He saw the red blood surge up to her lips 
and paint her cheeks. He saw the black malice that 
stirred in the depths of her eyes. He caught the smothered 
exclamation, a shocking exclamation, that arose to her 
lips, and he knew, and every member of the class knew, 
that the bitter little “Damn!” which sprang past the lips 
of Edith Williams was unadulterated, forceful invective. 

She was outdone in the first round. Mahala would not 
ride to the church with the remainder of the class. Why 
was she in that omnibus among the sons and daughters of 
blacksmiths, and cobblers, and lawn cleaners ? Why had 
she not had the sense to think of having her uncle take 
her in their beautiful surrey? Why was she always letting 
Mahala Spellman get ahead of her? There rushed 
through her heart the conviction that when Mahala 
stepped through the door, in some way she would have 
managed, probably with half the money Edith had spent, 
to outdo her costume. 

The velvet of her dress, rose-petal soft, shut her in like 
the walls of a furnace. The heat and anger in her eyes 
made her what she never before in her life had been— 
arrestingly beautiful. She bit her dry lips and clenched 
her gloved hands. What matter that she had bought 
herself what she felt would be said to be the handsomest 
basket of flowers that would be carried to the stage that 
night, with the imaginary name of an imaginary lover 
attached by her own hands to the handle ? What matter 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 217 

that she had coached both her uncle and her aunt con¬ 
cerning the handsome offerings that they were to send up 
to her? In some way, Mahala would see to it that she 
would have liner. For one thing it was certain, after the 
expense of the piano lamp of four years ago, that Junior 
would stop at nothing. No doubt the basket he would 
send Mahala would far surpass hers. 

When the omnibus stopped at the church door, with his 
usual lithe smoothness of movement, Junior was on his 
feet and out of it first. Instead of marching straight into 
the church in the lead, as all of them expected him to do, 
he had surprised them by turning, and with one white- 
gloved hand upon the door, he had looked into the eyes 
of Edith Williams. Instantly she arose, gathering her 
skirts around her, and made her way to the door. She 
laid her hand in Junior’s outstretched one; she encountered 
the look in his eyes in a state of dumb bewilderment. She 
came carefully down the three steps leading from the 
eminence of the omnibus. Her ears heard the sweetest 
music this world ever had vouchsafed to them: “I say, 
Edith, you are a riproaring beauty to-night! Keep your 
head up, and show folks how it’s done!” 

In that instant Edith remembered that she knew her 
speech. A sort of cold self-possession washed in a big 
wave through her entire body. Her head tipped to a 
coquettish angle and she looked into the eyes of the boy 
she was passing so closely, with an alluring smile. 

“Thank you, Junior,” she said in dry breathlessness. 
“I’m so glad you like me.” 


THE WHITE FLAG 


2x8 

Then she passed him and hurried across the sidewalk 
into the prayer-meeting room. 

Junior stood his ground and gave his hand to the girls 
in turn as they alighted from the omnibus. In his heart 
he was saying to himself: “Oh, Hell! I didn’t say I 
‘liked’ her. I was trying to say that she was good- 
looking for the first time in her life, and maybe the last. 
But if she could keep that up, she’d be some punkins to 
look at, and that’s the truth!” 

Junior’s words had been overheard by the class behind 
Edith. They stood back, carefully scrutinizing her, and 
realized that what he had said was the truth. 

Edith worked her way to one side of the room and from 
her left hand let slide down among the folds of her dress 
the copy of her speech that she was carrying. With a 
deft foot she kicked it under the seats, confident that no 
one had observed the movement. In this confidence she 
retained her poise and her pose, and it was thus that 
Mrs. Spellman saw her. 

At that instant the voice of the organ, rolling an un¬ 
accustomed march, came to their ears. Again involun¬ 
tarily the thing that was deep in Edith’s mind arose to her 
lips, “Mahala!” Mahala’s mother was standing in the 
door, smiling and bowing and speaking in her gracious way 
to all of the boys and girls, cautioning them to keep cool, 
to keep in mind the opening phrases of their speeches and 
the rest must follow; then she made way for the Superin¬ 
tendent, who ordered them to “Come on!” and in me¬ 
chanical obedience, Edith led the way from the room. 


SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 


219 

In the darkness of the early June evening she could see a 
blur of white waiting on the sidewalk. 

In the order in which they were to sit upon the platv 
form, the class fell into line. The sidewalk cleared of a 
waiting crowd of unfortunates who had not the clothing 
or the invitation to enter the coveted portals, who yet 
had come to press back into the darkness and watch the 
spectacle. 

As Mahala advanced up the broad walk that led to the 
front steps of the church, there came scuffling through 
the crowd, she could not have told from where, a figure in 
white, as white as the new-born thoughts of white that 
contributed to her own dress. She realized that there was 
a catching and a snatching, an effort to make some one 
pause, and then she saw, scurrying up the steps before her, 
standing in the broad light of the open doors of the church, 
her bonnet lost in the crowd, Rebecca, her white flag 
lifted above the path the graduating class must follow to 
enter the doors. The figures of two working men in their 
shirt sleeves, with rough jests on their lips and their 
hands outstretched, started forward. 

Mahala looked up. Her first thought was that never in 
all her life had she seen a figure so appealingly beautiful. 
Probably no one in all that crowd, since the day of her 
self-imposed appearance with sheltered face as the bearer 
of the flag advocating purity, had seen Rebecca Sampson 
as she really was. The years untouched by mental strain 
had left her the lovely rounded face of girlhood. The 
deeply shadowing headpiece, always stiffly starched and 


220 


THE WHITE FLAG 


filled in with sustaining slats of pasteboard, had kept 
Rebecca’s complexion that of a little child. Her hands 
and arms were soft and white. Her throat, delicately 
rounded, was a miracle of whiteness. The plain white 
dress that she wore was as mistily white as the petals of 
a cherry bloom. The fringed flag that she held in Mahala’s 
pathway was as white as her dress. Suddenly Mahala 
threw out her hands. 

“Never mind!” she cried to the men. “Let her alone! 
I have been passing under her flag all my life.” 

She smiled on the crowds pressing forward on either side 
of her. 

“You know,” she said, “somehow this seems fitting. I 
rather like the idea of passing under Becky’s emblem of 
purity on Commencement night.” She half turned and 
called back to the other boys and girls: “Come on! 
Let’s all pass under the white flag with Becky’s blessing. 
Maybe it will help us to remember our speeches.” 

She raised her skirts and stepped into the full blaze of 
light falling from the church doors, and like a misty veil 
of purity, she shimmered and gleamed as she climbed 
the steps. Her head was as yellow as sunshine, her eyes 
were deep wells of blue-gray, and her long, dark lashes 
swept her pink cheeks, while the smile with which she went 
towaid Rebecca seemed to Jason, crowded tightly against 
the wail of the church looking up at her, the loveliest 
thing that this world could possibly have to offer. To 
him the gold head and the billowing skirts of gauzy fine¬ 
ness made Mahala look like a gold-hearted white rose. 



SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 221 

Immediately back of her, with her head tilted and a 
new light gleaming in her eyes, came Edith Williams. 
There was a smile on Jason’s lips. It was lingering from 
the vision of Mahala as she had bent her head and lifted 
her hands to her breast for the blessing of “Crazy Becky.” 
But the smile merged into an expression of aroused indig¬ 
nation. His thought had been that Edith Williams looked 
like a lily that needed a gold heart, but that thought 
quickly passed, for with uplifted hand, she struck aside 
the white flag and entered the church door. The crowd 
outside heard Rebecca’s shrill curse: “To the devil, you 
velvet-clad jade! You have a black heart—as black as 
your head!” 

Little Susanna, ever anxious to save any unpleasant 
occasion, came next, crying to Rebecca: “My turn now. 
I want to go under your flag, Rebecca!” Instantly 
Rebecca was all smiles again and the flag was back in 
place while her lips were murmuring a blessing. 

Down the line, Junior had heartily sympathized with the 
uplifted hand. What mummery that a crazy woman 
should be allowed to stand there! She might even come 
into the church and spoil the graduating exercises. He 
said to the men standing nearest him: “Watch her! 
Don’t let her get into the church. She’ll spoil everything. 
She ought to be taken to the lock-up at a time like this.” 

But as he came up the steps, Junior had not quite the 
courage to subject himself to the black curse that had 
fallen upon Edith. With a shamefaced grin and a mut¬ 
tered, “Better avoid a fight,” he ducked under the flag 


THE WHITE FLAG 


222 

and hurried into the church. Following the example of the 
graduating class, the Principal, the Superintendent, the 
high-school teachers, and the School Board passed under 
the flag to Rebecca’s intense delight. The last man in the 
procession was Martin Moreland. Since he could not be 
first, he had deliberately chosen to be last. He would be 
more conspicuous in the outside seat than he would be be¬ 
tween two other men. As he came up the steps, Re¬ 
becca’s eyes fastened on him. Instantly, she whirled the 
flag from over the head of the man before him and snatched 
it to her breast. She folded her hands over it and held it 
there tight, crying to the outraged banker as he advanced: 
“Woe upon you, Martin Moreland, despoiler of white 
flags, despoiler of white women! The blackest curse of 
the Almighty is waiting for your head!” 

Martin Moreland’s outstretched arm swept her off the 
steps and backward into the crowd. 

“Take that crazy helion where she can’t possibly get 
into the building,” he said. “I’ll hold you responsible if 
it happens.” 

Exactly who was to be held responsible, no man knew. 
It was Jason who made his way through the crowd, put a 
protecting arm around Rebecca, who whispered into her 
ear words that would calm and soothe her, who led her to 
the outskirts of the crowd and saw her safely started on her 
homeward way before he slipped up the stairs and found a 
seat m the suffocating balcony from which he meant to 
watch until he saw whether his gift gained any attention 
from Mahala. 



SOMETIMES YOUR SOUL SHOWS 223 

It was not until they were seated that Edith Williams 
had an opportunity surreptitiously to take a full look at 
Mahala from behind the screen of her swaying fan. 
Mahala had been ahead of her. From the sidewalk, be¬ 
hind her mother’s back, she had secured a full-length look 
at Edith, and she had been as distinctly shocked as had 
Junior. There was no gainsaying the fact that Edith was 
wearing an exquisite gown, and for that night at least she 
was lovely. Mahala suspected that the red lips and the 
pink cheeks were painted, and there she partially mis¬ 
judged. Edith was painted, but Junior had been the 
artist. She decided that Edith’s dress was probably the 
most expensive in the church, that it was wonderfully 
lovely, but it was not appropriate for the occasion. She 
felt that it was not in as good taste as was her own; but 
there was a pang of disappointment, because the verdict 
in her favour would not be so easy, or so unanimous, as it 
always had been. Many in the house that night would 
think Edith quite as beautiful as she and more handsomely 
gowned. 


CHAPTER X 

A Trick of the Subconscious 

M AHALA had been born at a period in the wedded 
lives of her parents when both of them were at 
the high tide of joy in their union, of pride in 
their hearts, of happiness without a cloud. She had made 
her advent fortified with a happy heart. The slight pang 
that shot through her as she looked at Edith was of short 
duration. As swiftly as it had come, it was gone. When 
she caught Edith’s eye, the smile she sent her was charm¬ 
ing; a widening of her eyes, a little pucker of her lips, 
was meant to convey to Edith that Mahala was saying: 
“How wonderful! You look perfectly stunning.” This 
added one more degree to the joy that at that minute was 
welling and singing in the heart of Edith Williams. 

Out in the audience a satisfied flutter was rolling in 
waves through the building. In her secret heart, each 
mother was thinking, that in some way, her child had 
slightly the best of the other children. There was almost 
a bewildered look on the face of Elizabeth Spellman. She 
was constrained to admit, if only to herself, that she never 
before had seen Edith Williams look like that, and she 
never had supposed it was possible that she could look 
like that. It dawned upon her that a few pounds of flesh, 



A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 22c 

a few waves of happiness, judicious assistance in dressing 
that would come to Edith when she travelled, were going 
to make of her an extremely attractive young woman. 

When she lifted the programme in her hands and glanced 
over it, her eyes fastened upon two lines thereon and her 
slight sense of humour came to the surface to such a degree 
that she nudged Mahlon and ran her finger under them. 
What Mahlon saw, when he looked where the finger in¬ 
dicated, read: Sowing Seeds of Kindness” and beneath 
it, “Edith Williams.” It was a poor place to catch Mah¬ 
lon unprepared and unaware. 1 he gurgle that arose to 
his lips made him look, for an instant, as human as Jimmy 
Price. Nothing could have mortified Mahlon more 
deeply. 

The organ was rolling again. The imported soprano 
was warbling among high notes about the “tide coming up 
from Lynn,” and a few seconds later John Reynolds was 
delivering the salutatory and then sailing into the bay he 
had left and prognosticating what was going to happen 
upon the ocean that lay before him. 

While her aunt and uncle clutched cold hands and dared 
not look each other in the face, Edith Williams stood up 
and sowed her “seeds of kindness” without a falter and 
without a break. She went straight through as if she 
could not have lost a word if she had tried, and sat down 
in such a spasm of self-congratulation that she could 
scarcely keep from applauding her own performance. 
Never in all her life had she been quite so surprised: 
never had she been one half so deeply pleased. 


226 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Immediately after her, looking as handsome as it was 
possible for him to look, beautifully clothed, cool and 
utterly self-possessed, taking his time, a jesting light in his 
eyes, half a laugh on his lips, for a few minutes Martin 
Moreland Junior held forth on the Constitution of these 
United States. He gave the impression that the Consti¬ 
tution should feel much better since it had his approval. 

Then, in a dress half way of Mahala’s making, the goods 
of her giving, flushed and attractive, Susanna Bowers told 
the audience her conception of the full duty of woman. 
It was difficult for any one in the audience to imagine 
where Susanna had gotten her ideas as to what the full 
duty of a woman might be. The audience would persist in 
thinking about the place from which Susanna naturally 
would have been supposed to gain her conclusions, but 
Susanna had been forced to go by contraries. She had 
gotten her material where none of the other girls had 
secured theirs. Her conception was one half the fruit of a 
vivid imagination, and the other half Mahala Spellman. 
All Susanna needed to do in writing her paperwas to look at 
Mahala, then shut her eyes and concentrate on the kind of 
a woman that she believed Mahala would be ten years 
hence. It made an attractive paper; Susanna delivered it 
well. 

Then Frederick Hilton repeated very creditably an 
oration of Patrick Henry’s, and Samantha Price read what 
she had copied from encyclopaedias concerning Grace 
Darling. The women in the audience developed ex¬ 
pressions of uncertainty and from them there emanated a 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 227 

wave of veiled protest when Amanda Nelson sailed into* 
the subject of the peril of Susan B. Anthony. There 
were a few women in that audience who did not regard 
Susan B. as a peril. 1 hey looked upon her rather as an 
anchor, or a light. 1 hey were not particularly obliged to 
Amanda for her version of what Susan B. was attempting. 
Even those high-minded dames, who had neither the desire 
nor the intention of soiling themselves in the handling of a 
ballot at such a questionable place as the polls, felt in their 
secret hearts that they should have the right to do this if 
they chose. There were even those among them who re¬ 
sented the arrest of Mary Walker, for appearing on the 
streets of New York in trousers. Of course, they could 
neither be bribed nor forced so to appear themselves, but 
if Mary desired to wear trousers, they rather felt that 
she was within her rights. The wave of disapproval 
washed up to very nearly a murmur of protest when the 
speaker made her best bow and sat down amid the deafen¬ 
ing applause of the men. No other speaker up to that 
time had had such an ovation. The nearer the doctor, 
the lawyer, the judge, the sheriff, the postmaster, the 
county chairman, the state senator, the banker, and the 
dry-goods merchant, came to blistering their palms, the 
more the women of the audience felt, that if they could 
have done exactly as they pleased in seclusion, they would 
have soundly boxed Amanda Nelson’s ears. 

Before the cheers concerning the peril of Susan B. had 
subsided, Henrick Schlotzensmelter plunged into his dis¬ 
cussion of whether Might or Right should prevail. Exactly 


228 


THE WHITE FLAG 


how Henrick’s paper passed the Superintendent and the 
Principal was a matter that Melancthon Reynolds, the 
county prosecutor, could not figure out, because Henrick 
succeeded very admirably in proving that “ might ” and 
“right” were synonymous, and that “might” must and 
should prevail because it was “right” that it should. His 
oration was even less popular with the men than had been 
that concerning Susan B. with the ladies of the audience. 
Most of the applause that fell to Henrick’s share came 
from his father and mother, who had been born and had 
spent their early married life in Bingen on the Rhine. 

There was a movement of exasperation on the part of 
Elizabeth Spellman, upon which Mahlon placed the high 
sign of his approbation, when little pasty-faced Jane 
Jackson began a discussion as to whether Carrie Nation 
should be suppressed, and again an intangible wave swept 
the audience. There were two opinions concerning that 
subject, also. Evidently, neither thought this the proper 
place for a discussion of temperance. When the ushers, 
who had been busy all evening flitting up and down the 
aisles carrying baskets and bouquets of every shape and 
condition to heap at the feet of those who had triumph¬ 
antly finished, were through, it was noticed that the ad¬ 
vocate, who felt very strongly that Carrie Nation should 
not be suppressed, had reaped a very light harvest in the 
line of flowers. There was no wonderful basket with a 
vine-wreathed handle standing at her feet; only a few 
roughly bunched, home-grown posies fell to her lot, flowers 
that had not been cooled in cellars and refrigerators, and 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 229 

were not reinforced with stems packed in wet moss. But 
she happened to be sitting beside Edith Williams whose 
bounty rolled over and so encroached upon her that it was 
difficult for the audience to tell where Edith left off and 
Jane began. 

At last Mahala Spellman arose and came to the front of 
the stage, smiling upon her parents, her friends, and neigh¬ 
bours with precisely the same brand of assurance that had 
been hers ever since she had stood on that same platform 
at four years of age and recited : 

“Hush, hush!” 

Said a little brown thrush. 

It had been agreed upon that occasion that Mahala was 
a wonder. The verdict held over. In the first place, 
standing in the spotlight of the big chandelier that the 
Mite Society had cooked and sweated so patiently, with 
such dogged persistence over a long period to pay for, 
Mahala made a grand showing. She did the whole town 
credit. Hair that has been carefully brushed twice a day 
for eighteen years is bound to be silky. Mahala’s hung 
like spun floss brushed into curls over her shoulders. 
The silvery wreath that held it in place looked as fragile 
and white as the silver whiteness of the mass of ruffles and 
lace that billowed around her. As she lifted her hands in 
a grave gesture, the women of the audience noticed that 
she had a new sleeve. Lace edged, it flowed from her el¬ 
bows in fullness to the region of her knees; from the elbows 
down to her wrists there was an inner sleeve that was a 


230 


THE WHITE FLAG 


mass of ruffling of fine lace. The dress was a work of art, 
and in it Mahala looked like nothing else in all the world so 
much as a gorgeous, big white rose with a heart of gold— 
a vivid heart, for her lips were red, her cheeks were pink, 
her blue eyes were shining, and her hair remained gold. 

She loved her subject because she was talking about 
“Our Duty to Our Neighbours.” Mahala felt that every 
one had a duty to his neighbours. She did not feel that 
Ashwater always performed this duty creditably, and to¬ 
night was her first chance to say to the ministers, the law¬ 
yers, the doctors, and the church deacons, precisely what 
she conceived to be the duty of any individual to his 
neighbour. As she talked, simply, convincingly, at times 
eloquently, Elizabeth Spellman could not keep from bur¬ 
rowing the hand next Mahlon down against his side where 
she took a tight grip upon his coat, and he knew that she 
was praying with every fibre of her being that Mahala 
might acquit herself in a manner that would be unquestion¬ 
ably above criticism and redound inevitably to their great 
credit. 

Mahlon’s heart was pounding till it jarred him. There 
had been a great deal to agitate it for a number of years 
past. At the present minute the load it was labouring 
under was almost more than it could bear and function 
properly. Mahlon’s feet were cold; his hands were cold; 
and his head was hot—far too hot. He did not know 
why these things should be, for the simple reason that 
there was not the shadow of a fear in his heart that Mahala 
would fail. He knew Mahala well enough to know that 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 231 

if she forgot the set speech she had arisen to make, she was 
perfectly capable of improvisation that would fill the bill 
creditably. And he did not know why he spent time 
thinking of such a thing as that, because it was quite im¬ 
possible that Mahala should fail. He was a bit irritated 
at the grip of Elizabeth’s clutching hand at his side. He 
knew that it was his full duty, as the head of the house, to 
quiet the fears of his womenfolk. He should have cov¬ 
ertly secured Elizabeth’s hand and allowed the waves of 
certainty that were possessing his veins to be transmitted 
to her, and why in the world he was not giving her this 
satisfaction in mental support, he did not know. But the 
fact was that he would have given quite a bit to be able to 
shake off her clutching hand. Why need she be keyed up 
to such a point concerning his daughter that she must 
clutch and grab? Why should she not sit erect in calm 
certainty that his daughter would acquit herself perfectly 
in whatever she undertook? Look at the splendour of her 
dress, fashioned mostly by her own hands. Look at her 
cool forehead, her graceful gesture, her natural curls hav¬ 
ing the temerity to curl tighter with the humidity of the 
night that was spelling tragedy for products of the waving 
board and the curling iron. Listen to the sweetness of 
her voice. Notice that her hand discarded the fan that 
others worked assiduously. 

Suddenly, Elizabeth’s hand dug in compellingly. She 
might as well have clutched a stone, for Mahlon had very 
nearly accomplished that transformation. Mahala was 
off the track! Elizabeth opened her lips to prompt her 


232 


THE WHITE FLAG 


child with the next word, but shut them in sudden daze. 
Calm as she conceivably could be, Mahala was going 
straight ahead; but what was that scandalizing rot she was 
talking? Elizabeth would have given worlds to have had 
her daughter across her knee and a hair brush convenient. 

“Perhaps the highest duty any man owes his neighbour 
is to respect his mentality, to grant to him the same in¬ 
tellectual freedom that he reserves for himself," the girl's 
clear voice was saying. 

“Too much contact with Schlotzensmelters and Nel¬ 
sons!" Elizabeth commented mentally. 

“Each man has his personal relation to God to con¬ 
sider," Mahala was saying. “He wishes other men to re¬ 
spect his religion—to that same degree let him consider 
and reverence the religion of his neighbours." 

“Campbellites slopping in a tank! Popery and bigo- 
tism!" hissed Elizabeth in her seething brain. 

“Each man gives his party affiliations deep study and 
believes wholeheartedly in his views," the girl was saying. 
“Why should he deem his neighbour less interested, less 
capable of deciding for himself?" 

“Democrats and Populists!" sweated Elizabeth, un¬ 
sparingly kneading Mahlon's defenceless side. 

“There are even those among us not willing to allow our 
neighbours to choose which newspaper they will take, 
what books they will read, what clothing they shall 

wear-" smooth as oil Mahala flowed on, but each 

phrase was a blow, each idea revolutionary. 

“Why should men be such bigots as to require that other 



A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 233 

men shall conform to their ideas before they will grant 
them intellectual freedom ?” cried the girl. 

‘Til show you, Miss!” said Elizabeth. 

But, hark! What was that? The church in a storm of 
applause, in the midst of a speech! Unprecedented! It 
kept on and on. Suddenly, Elizabeth found herself 
blistering her palms against each other. She looked at 
Mahlon, to find him doing the same thing. Of all the 
world! How they did applaud that slip of a girl! And 
those were some of the very things Elizabeth had sup¬ 
pressed, or thought she had. 

Mahala was back on the track now. Her excursion had 
been the triumph of the Spellmans! life, but limply wet, 
exhausted, and secretly outraged, Elizabeth weakly prayed 
that Mahala would attempt no further improvisation. 
That prayer was answered. The Defense having been 
granted a brain as well as a body, Mahala was constrained 
to close as she was expected. Mahlon drew a deep breath 
and used his handkerchief. To him, as Mahala took her 
seat, with the sacred edifice rocking in the gust of approval, 
she was a sacred thing. Whatever she did came out right. 
She was a perfect picture, a white flower. That recalled 
him to the fact that, shrouded in tissue paper between his 
knees, was a horribly expensive basket that his pride had 
compelled him to order for her from the nearest city. 
She had not had a peep of it. Through the tissue enfold¬ 
ing it, Mahlon could feel the coolness that it distilled 
around his feet, since the generous applause had warmed 
them. From the corner of his eye he was watching the 


234 


THE WHITE FLAG 


approaching ushers as Mahala finished and the organ 
swelled triumphantly to proclaim that the first great public 
event in the lives of these youngsters had been passed with 
credit to each and every one of them. 

As the ushers came nearer, Mahlon found, absurd as it 
might seem, that it was going to be impossible for him to 
release that tissue covering without at least the usher and 
Elizabeth seeing that his hands were shaking. He kept 
them tightly gripped, one over each knee, to steady him¬ 
self. He had ordered that bouquet. It was the emana¬ 
tion of his taste. He meant that nothing on the stage 
should approach it in elegance. His hand should be the 
one to burst it forth, a wave of artistic beauty for the eyes 
of the watching audience. In his heart, Mahlon never 
was quite so thankful as when Elizabeth leaned across and 
with a little twitch loosened the wrappings and lifted them, 
leaving the basket ready for his hand. After all, Eliza¬ 
beth was to be depended on; she was his complement, 
she was the best thing in life that he had ever done for 
himself. He was distinctly sorry that he had not taken 
her hand during its clutching appeal but a few moments 
before. - 

He did manage to swing his left knee out of the way and 
with the right foot slide the basket across to the attention 
of the approaching flower girl. Her arms were already 
filled but she smiled on him, gave the basket an appraising 
glance, and whispered: “I’ll come for that specially, when 
I’ve delivered these/’ 

Mahlon approved, because it was not suitable that his 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 235 

wonderful gift should be overshadowed or in any way 
brought in contact with anything else. So he sat waiting 
while the flower girl laid her offering at the feet of his 
smiling daughter and came back to bear aloft his triumph 

alone. 

Then Mahlon s heart played him another queer trick. 
He had forgotten that young upstart of a Moreland. 
Why hadn’t it occurred to him what the fellow would do? 
Mahlon’s sick eyes saw Mrs. Morelatid arise and step into 
the aisle in order that there might be lifted from before her 
a long, tray-shaped basket with an ornate handle that was 
outlined with purple violets, while the basket was heaped 
with pale roses of peach-blow pink, and walled in with the 
purple of a great roll of Parma violets, and silver tulle and 
pink satin ribbons were showering down from one side of 
the handle. Mahlon heard Elizabeth’s little gasp beside 
him. They had seen the great armload of red roses that 
the Morelands had sent up to their son; they were not 
prepared for this exquisite demonstration that they were 
sending before the eyes of the assembled town, to Mahala. 
Elizabeth’s hand was digging into Mahlon’s side in spite 
and vexation until it hurt him, and this time he reached 
for it and clung to it hard. 

It was abominable luck. He would have given any¬ 
thing to be in the secrecy of his bedchamber where he 
might have said all he thought to sympathetic ears. But 
ill luck for the Spellmans was only beginning. Down the 
opposite aisle came another flower girl, and those im¬ 
mediately concerned had not seen who had delivered to her 


THE WHITE FLAG 


236 

a great, upstanding sheaf of enormous crinkly white roses 
with hearts of gold. Here and there through the sheaf 
were big waxen lilies with hearts of gold, and sharply 
etched leaves of tall fern, while through and around them 
there was a mist of lacy maidenhair, so fine that no one 
ever had seen its like. The sheaf was bound around the 
middle like a sheaf of wheat with a great broad ribbon of 
gold. Thrust through the knot there was a mass of the 
delicate fern leaves and daringly there glowed and flamed 
one smashing big, blood-red rose. 

Under the eyes of Junior and Martin and Mrs. More¬ 
land, and before the faces of the quivering Elizabeth and 
Mahlon Spellman, this triumph of the florist’s art had 
been borne down the aisle and stood at the knees of the 
valedictorian. 

“My land!” gasped Elizabeth Spellman, for Mahlon’s 
private ear. “Who do you suppose?” 

Mahlon’s whole body was a tense note of protest. He 
did not suppose. He was too stunned to suppose. He 
was too outraged to suppose. Where had the damned 
thing come from? Elizabeth’s hand was cutting into his. 
It required the reinforcement of Mahlon’s left hand to keep 
his mouth shut. 

Spontaneous as always, Mahala had picked up the piece 
de resistance of the evening, an offering beside which all 
else paled into insignificance. She lifted it lightly, smiled 
on it, turned it a bit that she might see its full beauty, her 
head cocked on one side in a birdlike gesture habitual with 
her, lifted it level with her breast, buried her face among 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 237 

its waxen satin petals and gracefully ran her delicate 
finger-tips through the clinging maidenhair. Then the 
audience caught the fact that she was searching for a card. 
She was looking, and her fingers were feeling—and her 
search was not being rewarded. The handsomest floral 
tribute that the Ashwater Commencement knew that 
night had either been sent anonymously, or the card had 
been lost. 

Mahala’s curiosity was making her look over the length 
and breadth of the heap in front of her and at the two gor¬ 
geous baskets set before it. 1 hen she gently set down the 
lilies and roses at her knees and lifting her head, she 
searched the audience with a long and deliberate 100k. 
There was only one person in the audience who knew when 
that look found its resting place. There was only one 
person, high up, far back, in the gallery who read to the 
depths of Mahala’s eyes in that instant and through whose 
heart flowed the cool acquiescence of peace when he saw 
her fingers slip out and deliberately break from its stem 
the bud of a white rose that she thrust among the laces 
covering her bosom. 

It was only a moment more before the music was peal¬ 
ing; the Superintendent had made his short speech, as presi¬ 
dent of the School Board, Martin Moreland was telling 
what increasingly wonderful work was done each year by 
the youth of the town, how well deserved were the sheep¬ 
skins that he was now to bestow upon them. The boys 
were trying to figure out a problem none of them had re¬ 
membered to concentrate upon—how they least awk- 


THE WHITE FLAG 


238 

wardly might accept and dispose of the beribboned roll 
thrust at them. They did not know whether to hold it 
like a ball bat or a fan. It took the daring of Junior 
Moreland to make of it a trumpet through which he sent 
a message to his shocked mother in the audience. It was 
only a few seconds later that Jemima Davis was on her 
knees in front of Mahala gathering into the folds of a 
widely spread sheet every tribute, large and small, bearing 
the girl’s name. 

Guarding like a soldier the beautiful baskets and the 
sheaf, she whispered to Mahala: “Who sent you them 
lilies and roses, darlin’?” 

Mahala leaned to Jemima’s ear to respond: “Hunt 
through them carefully, Jemima. If you find a note, you 
will hide it for me, won’t you, old dearest dear?” 

Jemima answered convincingly: “You just bet your 
sweet life I will!” 

So with a heart of contentment, Mahala led the pro¬ 
cession down the aisle, climbed into the omnibus before 
her parents had a chance to object, and with the others was 
carried away to the banquet at the Newberry House. 

The big dining room filled speedily. Ranged around 
the long centre table, having the graduates at one end, 
their parents at the other, were smaller tables for the 
alumni, the School Board, the teachers, and the invited 
guests of the graduates. The centre table was the pin¬ 
nacle of fame that night. The flushed, happy graduates, 
free of a haunting fear of weeks’ duration on the part of 
most of them, could now laugh and talk and be natural, 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 


239 

the result of a whole school life of association. The other 
end of the table had its troubles. When the Morelands, 
the Spellmans, and the Williamses undertook to break 
bread and indulge in social intercourse with the Schlotzen- 
smelters, the Bowers, and the Prices of the town, the situa¬ 
tion soon became painful. The upper dog tried to be con¬ 
descending; the under dog resented it, and speedily lost 
out by not knowing how to handle napkins, an array of 
cutlery, and a queer assortment of fancy food that be¬ 
longed in strange places. Pa Schlotzensmelter, irritated 
beyond caution, audibly asked his wife: “Vere do I pud 
dose celery?” And Jimmy Price hastened to answer: 
“In your mouth.” The Schlotzensmelters were out¬ 
raged, but later their revenge was sweet when Jimmy 
took a drink from the rose-geranium scented finger bowl, 
whose use he had not observed by his neighbours, and 
passed it on to his wife, who followed his example! 

The arising from the table was in the nature of a blessed 
release on the part of the elders. With the graduating 
class in the lead, the assemblage moved across the street 
to the dance hall. 

Flushed and happy, Mahala stood on the floor, one 
little qualm of dread in her heart. In that slight interval 
of waiting for the music to begin, Elizabeth and Mahlon 
had their first chance at their offspring. Mahala saw 
them coming and knew that her hour of explanation was 
upon her. They never would understand how simple it 
had been. She smiled on them without guile and took the 
initiative in self-protection. 


240 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“I was just hoping for a word with you,” she cried. 
“Were you badly frightened? You see, it was this 
way-” 

“A very charming way/’ said Mahlon, gallantly kissing 
his daughter’s hand. “Very charming! Your audience 
was with you. What more need be said?” 

“You certainly acquitted yourself nobly,” broke in 
Elizabeth, and yet, little daughter, didn’t you serve 
Papa and Mama rather a naughty trick?” 

“‘Trick?’” Mahala’s eyes widened. “‘Trick?' 
Pardon me, Mama, it was like this: When I wrote the 
first draft of my speech I said what I thought and felt. 
You and Papa argued so strongly that I cut it at your sug¬ 
gestion, but every time I rehearsed it, those cut parts 
would flash through my brain. I couldn’t stop them. I 
give you my word of honour, I never intended to say them. 
I didn’t know I was saying them until I heard them, and 
then I couldn’t stop until I had reached a place where I 
could get back smoothly. After that, I was very careful. 
It was the lights, the big crowd, the urge to express what 
I truly thought—you believe me, don’t you?” 

“Certainly, my child!” said Mahlon. “Don’t give the 
matter another thought. I’ve never hoped to be so proud 
of you. It was a triumph!” 

Yes, conceded Elizabeth, there is no better word 
for it; it was a triumph.” 

Mahala studied the pair of them. She said slowly, re¬ 
flectively. Ii you feel that over one little argument that 
pushed itself in, I wonder what would have happened if I 



A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 


241 

had been permitted to deliver my whole speech as I wrote 

• >> 
it. 

“A hint was all right,” said Elizabeth; “more would 
have ruined it.” 

She turned to Professor James, who was passing, to in¬ 
quire: “Professor, did you notice Mahala’s bit of im¬ 
promptu work?” 

The Professor looked at them and then at Mahala 
searchingly. 

“Fd hardly call that impromptu,” he said. “It so 
fitted with what had gone before, so rounded out our 
neighbour’s side of the argument, that I can only say that 
it is a great pity Mahala did not pursue her conclusions a 
little further. It would have done all of us good.” 

Elizabeth was a Tartar. 

“I scarcely agree with you,” she said primly. “A 
touch might do, but more smacked too loudly of masculin¬ 
ity. Ladies should allow their men to say those things 
for them.” 

Mahala knew, having settled this point to her satis¬ 
faction, what would be coming next. She excused herself 
and hurried to join Edith who was waiting for her, the 
glamour of her triumph still illuminating her. Her pro¬ 
gramme was in very plain sight; as Junior came toward 
them, he could sense it blocking his path. He had been 
constrained to admit to himself that Edith looked that 
night as he had not dreamed that it was possible that she 
could. But he never had liked her. He did not care for 
her now, and every fibre of his being was in irritated pro- 


THE WHITE FLAG 


test against that sheaf of lilies and roses that had been 
given Mahala. It might have been from her father or 
mother, possibly she had out-of-town relatives, but if she 
had, why had she never mentioned them? Who was 
there who could have shown the taste and spent the money, 
and who had dared to set one blood-red rose in a sheaf of 
virgin white? 

He brushed roughly past Edith, paying not the slightest 
attention to her. He seized Mahala’s programme, and 
against her protests, began writing his name all over it. Her 
father and mother were standing directly behind her; 
beside them, his own parents. Edith glanced toward 
them in a vain effort to hide the quiver of her lips, and 
saw that all of them were laughingly acquiescing. Junior, 
looking over Mahala’s head, saw them, also. 

Carried away by their approval, he caught Mahala into 
his arms and swept her into the first dance. Then, 
guiding her to a flower-screened corner, in the scarcely 
adequate shelter of the foliage, he deliberately crushed her 
in his arms and kissed her on the mouth. 

She pushed him away, protesting angrily. With a bit 
of lace supposed to be a handkerchief, she roughly scoured 
the curve of her lips to a brighter red than the freely 
flowing blood of the evening had tinted them. 

That provoked Junior so that he said to her: “You 
might as well stop that! You’re the only girl I love, or ever 
intend to love, and I’m going to marry you. I’ve got a 

lot selected and I m working on the plans for our house 

right now.” 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 243 

Mahala drew back and looked at Junior intently for a 
few seconds, looked as deep into his eyes as any one ever 
saw into the eyes of either Moreland, father or son. She 
said slowly and deliberately: “If that’s the truth, Junior, 
you’re wasting time. I’m not going to marry any one 
until F Ve finished college, and I have not the slightest 
intention of marrying you at any time.” 

A slow red mounted into Junior’s cheeks, a queer spark 
of white light snapped in the back of his eyes. 

“You don’t mean that,” he said tensely. “You only 
say it to get me going. \T>u want me down on my knees 
before you. You want me to whine and beg for you like a 
hungry puppy dog.” 

Mahala reached out a hand and deliberately laid it upon 
junior’s. 

“Junior,” she said, “listen to me. You know that isn’t 
the truth. To save your life, you can’t name one time 
when I ever said a word or did a thing to encourage you in 
the belief that I liked you better than any of the other 
boys. Think a minute. You know I never did. I’m not 
going to marry you. You might as well not set your 
heart on it. I don’t want you to cringe and beg; I’m not 
asking anything of you but to leave me alone. Can’t you 
get it into your head that I mean what I say?” 

She brushed past him and started in the direction of her 
father and mother. Junior saw that the fingers of the 
hand that had lain upon his were now lightly touching the 
petals of a white rose that was homing on her breast. 

He stood in a sort of stupor for a minute; finally he 


244 


THE WHITE FLAG 


lifted his head and went swiftly from a side door. With¬ 
out a deviating step, he took the shortest cut to the nearest 
saloon and there he drank until he became wild, so that he 
began throwing glasses and abusing the furniture. He was 
venting the insane anger that swelled up in his breast on 
anything that came in his way. Chairs and tables flew 
before him. Heavy bottles and glasses went crashing. 
It was an accident that a poorly aimed decanter smashed 
through the frosted glass of the front door, allowing the 
passers-by to see what w T as going on inside. 

Martin Moreland, who never lost sight of Junior for 
long, had seen him draw Mahala into the flowery enclosure. 
In an ambling way he had sauntered to the front side of 
the flowers and taken up a position where he could hear 
what was being said while he was pretending smilingly to 
watch the dancers with great interest. With that smile 
on his lips, his clenched hands were aching to strike. The 
savage anger that many times in his life had overtaken 
and swayed him, was swelling up in such a tide as his 
tried heart never before had known. He wanted to take 
Mahala in her flowerlike whiteness, and twist his fingers 
around her delicate neck until the very eyes would pop 
from her head. He wanted to do anything that was sav¬ 
age and cruel and merciless to the girl who would thrust 
aside and repulse his son. 

He realized, with that craft which forever walked hand 
in hand with love m his heart, that he must take care of 
Junior. He must avoid scandal. He hurried from the 
side door, knowing where he would find his boy. He had 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 245 

reached the saloon and had his hand upon the door when 
the glass came crashing into his face. Through the 
opening he saw Junior flushed and dishevelled, his clothing 
already stained and ruined in a wild debauch. Shaking 
off the splintered glass, he entered. He ordered the pro¬ 
prietor to nail a piece of carpet, anything, over the opening 
immediately; then he took his place beside Junior and 
made a deceiving pretense of helping him to demolish the 
saloon. 

Surprised at this, Junior stood watching his father who 
was really doing no very great damage. He began to 
laugh and applaud; then he consented to sit down at a 
table and drink with his father, and very speedily his con¬ 
dition became helpless. Then Martin Moreland sent for 
his carriage and took his boy home and with his own hands 
undressed him and put him into his bed, a horrible con¬ 
trast with the lad who had left the room a few hours 
earlier. 

Mrs. Moreland, becoming disquieted by the absence of 
both her husband and her son, went in search of them. 
She thought possibly they had gone back to the bar of the 
Newberry House, but an inquiry there told her that they 
had not returned. So she hurried the few intervening 
blocks, and seeing the light in Junior's room, entered her 
home and climbed the stairs to find him helpless, stretched 
on his bed, his father kneeling beside him removing his 
shoes. 

As a rule Mrs. Moreland let no word pass her lips that 
would irritate her husband. She had learned through the 


THE WHITE FLAG 


246 

years that she had lived with him, to know what lay in the 
depths of his eyes. She had no desire to plumb the depths 
of cruelty of which she vaguely felt him capable. She 
stood one long instant studying the picture before her and 
then she turned to him and said deliberately: “How do 
you like your work, Martin ? Are you pleased with what 
you are succeeding in making of your son?” 

The Senior Moreland threw up his head and favoured 
his wife with a full glance. In her eyes there was written 
large the love with which she yearned over her boy. 
Something about her expression made more nearly an 
appeal than anything she could have said to him. There 
was not much mirth in the laugh he forced to his lips. 

“Don't be an everlasting killjoy,” he said to her banter- 
ingly. “It’s all right for youth to have its fling. I fol¬ 
lowed him because I expected the strain of the night to 
end like this. He’ll be all right in the morning.” 

Arising, he offered her his arm with extreme politeness 
and escorted her from the sight of the boy. Once the door 
was closed after them, he gripped her arm until his fingers 
cut into it cruelly. He rushed her down the hall faster 
than she could comfortably walk and thrust her into her 
room so roughly and forcibly that she fell upon her bed. 
Standing over her, he said to her: “If you can’t manage to 
be anything better than a sickly idiot, you keep out of 
men’s affairs altogether.” And then, on a wave evoked 
by the nausea on her face, he added: “He’ll be ail right in 
the morning, I tell you!” 

In the morning, when Mrs. Moreland lifted strained and 


A TRICK OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS 247 

sleepless eyes to the doorway, she was shocked until she 
shrank back in her chair. Junior was standing there, 
laughing at her. She could not see any trace of the dis¬ 
sipation of the night before upon his face or person. He 
had bathed and carefully dressed. He came across to 
her laughingly, and standing behind her chair, he tipped 
her head back against him and kissed her. He scolded her 
for the loss of sleep evident on her face. He assured 
her that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself 
and that she never again was to worry in case he drank 
a little more than he should. He didn’t care anything 
about the stuff; he simply drank it with the other boys 
when they wanted to have a celebration. He pointed out 
the fact that his father never had become intoxicated to a 
degree that in the slightest interfered with his business or 
with his social position in the community, yet he always 
had a drink whenever he wanted it. He really succeeded 
in reassuring her to such an extent that she w T ent to her 
room and lay down to secure the sleep that she had lost. 


CHAPTER XI 


The Driver of the Chariot 

W HEN Mahala left Junior, she immediately 
hurried to her mother, forgetful of everything 
except that she wanted to be where she would 
not be subjected to further annoyance. She had forgotten, 
for the minute, what was in store for her the first time her 
mother found her alone. She was not allowed to forget 
very long. Instantly Mrs. Spellman had whispered in Ma- 
hala’s ear: “Where did those lilies and roses come from?” 
Mahala had taken time for mental preparation. 

“I hunted all I dared on the platform,” she said, “and 
I couldn’t find the card. I told Jemima, when she took 
my flowers home, to watch especially for it and to save it 
if she found one.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know where 
such a thing as that came from?” demanded Elizabeth 
Spellman abruptly. She was trying to face Mahala down 
with deeply penetrant eyes. Mahala objected to having 
her good time spoiled by the ordeal she had known she 
was destined to undergo when the exquisite sheaf had 
been stood at her knees. She showed not the slightest 
inclination to avoid her mother’s eyes. She seemed cap¬ 
able of looking into them with the utmost frankness. 

24 8 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 249 

No, Mama,” she said quietly, “I haven’t any intention 
of telling you anything. If there’s a card that belongs to 
the flowers, Jemima will have found it by the time we reach 
home. If there isn’t, we will just have to make up our 
minds that somebody cares enough about me to make me 
a lovely gift, won’t we?” 

It was Elizabeth Spellman’s proud boast that she had 
never struck her daughter. The chances are very large, 
that for the second time that evening, if she had been in 
seclusion, she might have been provoked to what her 
fingers were itching to do, but the one thing Elizabeth was 
forced to remember above everything else in time of crisis 
was that she was a lady. She could not very well slap her 
daughter’s face at a Commencement dance. 

“Am I to understand,” said Elizabeth, “that we’re once 
more facing a contribution from the mysterious source of 
your treasured canary bird?” 

Her quick eyes saw a stiffening in Mahala with which 
she had been familiar from her childhood. It seemed to 
be a faint tensing of muscles, a bracing of the spine. It 
was with real relief that Elizabeth saw so offensive a per¬ 
sonality as Henrick Schlotzensmelter approaching her 
daughter with a smile of invitation. She hated the whole 
Schlotzensmelter tribe with their sauerkraut and their 
sausage and their pumpernickel and their arrogant talk 
of might. Ordinarily, she would have done almost any¬ 
thing to keep the Schlotzensmelter fingers from even re¬ 
motely touching the hand of Mahala. In the circum¬ 
stances she made her way to Mahlon’s side, sat down, and 


250 


THE WHITE FLAG 


looked into his eyes. There she read that he was baffled, 
perplexed, and thwarted even as she, and she decided that 
it was not the time to whisper to him, no matter how sur¬ 
reptitiously, concerning any matter that would cause him 
the least disturbance. Her very deep annoyance over 
the Moreland flower basket and the anonymous white 
sheaf faded into insignificance when compared with the 
expression on Mahlon’s face, the look in his eyes. 

Behind a busily waving palm leaf she had picked up, she 
kept murmuring in her heart: “Hunted! Why Mahlon 
positively has a hunted look on his face. There’s no reason 
why he should take his disappointment over Junior's 
flower basket and that nasty white sheaf as seriously as 
that.” 

To the last number Mahala danced out the party. She 
was wide eyed and laughing, and her contagion spread to 
other members of the class, some of whom would never 
again have the opportunity of a public appearance with 
the high lights turned on, in the social life of Ashwater. 
She was dancing with every one who asked her to dance— 
young or old—and all of the others were following her 
example. Even Edith Williams had danced with her 
uncle and with Mr. Spellman and with all the boys of 
the graduating class. Mahala had been surprised when she 
saw her on Henrick’s arm, but she had been constrained 
to admit to herself that the evening had been filled with 
surprises. She had been surprised at Edith several times. 
Not more so than when Edith had whispered at her elbow: 
“Do you know where Junior Moreland is?” 


251 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 

She had replied: “I do not.” 

The surprise lay in Edith’s comment: “I suppose he’s 
in some of the saloons making a beast of himself. I should 
think he’d be ashamed.” 

Meditating on this, Mahala remembered that it was the 
first criticism of Junior she ever had heard Edith make. 
She wondered that Edith had remained and gone on danc¬ 
ing when she felt reasonably certain that she was not very 
greatly interested in what was taking place after Junior 
disappeared. 

* 

When, at last, the harp was carried away, the weary 
musicians left the orchestra pit, the lights were turned out, 
and the Spellman carriage stopped at the gate, Mahala 
ran into the house, straight into the waiting arms of Je¬ 
mima, where a little wisp of paper was thrust deep into 
the front of her dress. She knew that her mother was im¬ 
mediately behind her, so she cried: “My flowers, Jemima, 
what did you do with my lovely flowers?” 

Jemima answered: “I carried all of ’em to the cellar. I 
put what I could in water and I sprinkled the rest and put 
wet tissue paper over them. Your Ma said she wanted 
to have a picture made of them to-morrow with you in the 
midst.” 

Mrs. Spellman untied her bonnet strings and swung 
that small article from her head by one of them. 

“Well, I don’t know,” she said in exasperation, “what 
made me think anything so silly. It would look more like 
a funeral than a celebration.” 

Facing the possibility of having to look at a framed copy 


252 


THE WHITE FLAG 


of such a picture with the Moreland basket predominant 
in beauty above her own, and with the mysterious roses 
and lilies in evidence, Elizabeth had speedily decided that 
such a picture would be suggestive of a funeral to her. 

Across Mahala’s head she said to Jemima: “Was there 
any loose card or anything you found to tell where those 
white roses and lilies came from?” 

Jemima very truthfully answered: “No, ma’am, there 
wasn’t.” 

Her own curiosity had been sufficient to prompt her to 
read the little twisted wisp of note paper she had found 
tucked under the confining bow of gold that held the 
flowers, completely screened by the sheltering maiden¬ 
hair. On that scrap there had been written: “With 
undying devotion,” and there wasn’t even an initial, back 
or front. So Jemima had returned it to its original twist 
and thrust it where she very rightly considered that it 
belonged, and at that minute it was pressing into the flesh 
of Mahala’s breast, a vivid reminder that it was there. 

She was thankful for the crunch of the wheels on the 
gravel of the driveway which indicated that her father 
would tie up the horse at the barn before he came to slip 
off his evening clothes preparatory to putting the animal 
away. Mahala went straight to her mother and slipping 
her arms around her, kissed her tenderly. 

“Thank you very much. Mother dear,” she said, “for 
every lovely thing you have done to make this night so 
wonderful for me. I’ll slip in and kiss Papa good-night 
before I go to bed.” 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 253 

She was half way up the stairs before she heard her 
mother calling: “Wait, Mahala, wait!” 

Because she had been all her life an obedient child, she 
paused with one hand on the railing and leaned down. 
There was a distinct note of exasperation in her voice as 
she asked: “What is it, Mama?” 

Mrs. Spellman found herself equally unable to ask the 
question she wanted to ask, and to the same degree unable 
not to ask it. She wavered. Mahala could see the work¬ 
ings of her brain as plainly as she could see her lips. Tak¬ 
ing the bull by the horns was an old habit of hers. She 
took hold now courageously as ever. 

“If you're bothering your head about those flowers,” she 
said very distinctly, “I'd advise you not to. It's wearing. 
They are very lovely. Whoever sent them had only the 
kindest intentions. Jemima told you that she didn't find 
anything to show where they had come from. What's 
the use to speculate when all of us are worn out?” 

Mahala went to her room, closed the door, and standing 
before the mirror, surveved her reflection from head to 
heels. She was not looking quite so fresh as she had the 
last time she had looked in that mirror, but she decided, 
that after delivering a valedictory and dancing for hours, 
she was still extremely presentable. She slipped from her 
dress and returned it to the form in the guest room from 
which it had been taken to serve its great purpose. As 
she shook out the skirts she said to it laughingly: “Let me 
tell you, you very nice dress, Edith gave me the hardest 
aim to-night she ever did. But I still think that you're 


254 


THE WHITE FLAG 


the prettiest dress and the most appropriate that was 
worn at Commencement to-night.” 

She leaned forward and for an instant buried her face in 
the laces on the breast of the dress covering the wire 
form. Going back to her room, she put out the light. 
As speedily as possible, she slipped into her nightrobe and 
then she went to the window where for four years the little 
gold bird had sung to her daily from its shining house 
of brass, and standing beside it in the moonlight, she 
smoothed out the twist of paper and upon it she read 
three words. She stood a long time in the moonlight look¬ 
ing across the roofs of neighbouring houses and down the 
moon-whitened street; then she turned and walked back 
to> her dressing table. Among the bottles and brushes 
on top of it there lay a white rosebud. She looked at it a 
few minutes; finally she picked it up, twisted the wisp of 
paper around the stem of it, and went to her closet. From 
a top shelf she took down a beautiful lacquered box that 
represented one of the handsomest of her father’s gifts 
from the city. It was shining in black and gold while 
across it flew white storks with touches of red above a 
silver lake bordered by gold reeds. 

She lifted the lining of her workbasket and from beneath 
it she took out a tiny gold key. With this she unlocked 
the box and laid the white rose and the three words inside 
it, relocked and replaced the box, and returned the key 
to its hiding place beneath the lining of her workbasket. 

Then Mahala laid her head upon her pillow and tried 
to go to sleep, but sleep was a long time coming. Never 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 255 

in her life had she found so many things of which to think. 
She knew that her mother would not give over her pursuit 
of the sender of the wonderful gift in the morning. She 
was reasonably certain that Junior would not be thwarted 
in his desires without putting up a fight that might very 
possibly, according to his methods of soldiering, become 
disagreeable. And there remained in her consciousness 
the memory of a look that she had seen in her father’s eyes 
that night, a look that had been gradually disquieting her 
for a long time. She had tried to evade it, to forget it, 
to make herself think it was not there. From to-night 
on she knew that it was not a thing to be longer evaded. 
It was something to be faced and to be dealt with. 

When she awakened in the morning, the house was so 
filled with sunshine, and there were so many people coming 
to see her wealth of beautiful gifts, to examine minutely 
the wonderful baskets and the sheaf of flowers that had 
been bestowed upon her, to try to fix in their consciousness, 
on the part of many filled with envy, just what amount 
of expense had been lavished upon Mahala’s graduation, 
that her fears were forgotten. Many of these callers were 
making the rounds. They had already been to the 
Williams’ residence and a few of them had felt sufficiently 
familiar with Mrs. Moreland to call there, also. By the 
time they reached the Spellmans’, they were able to draw 
a convincing conclusion as to which young person of Ash- 
water had received the largest number of the most ex¬ 
pensive gifts, the most flowers, and worn the costliest 
clothing. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


256 

Serena Moulton, who was responsible for the founda¬ 
tions of Mahala’s dress, stopped in for a view of the 
finished product. As she stood before it, she clasped her 
hands and looked at Mahala laughingly. 

“The first thing I know,” she said, “you’ll be taking 
my business from me. It just ain’t in my skin to do all 
this little fine ruffly business and all the handwork that 
you do. I’m terrible beholden to a sewing machine. I 
do like a long straight seam that I can set down to and 
just make my old Singer sing.” 

Mahala knew that this was intended to be funny, and so 
she laughed as heartily as she could over it. 

“Well, Serena,” she said, “there’s no telling which way 
the cat’s going to jump in this world. It may happen 
that very way.” 

She almost started at hearing the words on her own 
lips, while a fleeting shadow swept across her heart. 

But Serena was saying: “I’ve worked for Mrs. Moreland 
ever since Junior was a baby and I run in there. He’s 
only got a few things—mostly from his Pa and Ma— 
but they certainly are wonderful expensive. I never saw 
the beat of the watch his father give him for just a boy 
like him. About all the rest he had come from his mother. 
If the Morelands only knew it, they’re not any too popular 
with the folks of this town. Nobody’s going to reward 
’em for their overbearing ways by heaping presents and 
flowers on ’em. And I had a good deal the same feeling 
at Mrs. Williams’. There’s an awful display of flowers 
and there’s a lot of fine presents, but a body don’t see such 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 


257 

a flock of cards as there is tied to your stuff, and I think, 
if the truth was told, it would be that most that sour Edith 
got she bought for herself.” 

“Oh, Serena, don’t!” said Mahala. “Mrs. Williams is 
a friend of yours. She’d be awfully hurt if she thought 
you were going about town saying things like that. Of 
course, I won’t repeat them, but if you said them anywhere 
else, some one might.” 

“Well, it strikes me,” said Serena calmly as her eyes 
roved over the array of books and pictures, of glass and 
china and dainty feminine trifles of all sorts spread on 
the top of the big, square piano, “it strikes me that the 
really popular person of this town is standing before me.” 

Mahala made Serena an exaggerated courtesy, and in 
her prettiest manner said: “I thank you, Serena. I think 
that’s a very nice compliment.” 

Serena, looking at her clear eyes and the sweetness 
of her face, decided that she might venture, and so she 
said: “I saw Morelands sending up that awful elaborate 
basket, and I saw the nice one your Pa and Ma sent up, but 
I didn’t see where that great wheat sheaf of lilies an’ 
roses come from. It was terrible affecting. There wasn’t 
nothing in the church to begin to compare with it. I 
never saw grander at any funeral. Who give you that, 
Mahala?” 

The question was point blank. Mahala had faced it 
for a nasty half hour against the combined forces of her 
father and mother slightly earlier in the day. She was 
steeled for it, expecting it at Serena’s entrance. She 


258 THE WHITE FLAG 

looked Serena in the eyes and laughed, a laugh altogether 
free of confusion and secretiveness. 

“Now maybe that’s a secret I’m not telling. Maybe 
the card was lost, and I don’t know. Maybe any one of 
fifty things, whichever suits you best. I think, myself, 
that sheaf was the prettiest thing in the church last night.” 

Serena had the wit to know that she had all the answer 
she was ever going to get. A quiver of confusion ran 
through her heart. She knew she had had no business to 
ask the question. She had merely ventured depending 
upon Mahala’s good humour, and Mahala had refused to 
answer, so that meant that very likely some out-of-town 
person, maybe some of the Bluffport boys, or some one that 
none of them knew anything concerning, admired Mahala. 

Serena arose. She was not accustomed to giving up 
that easily. 

And while we le talking about the best-looking things 
in the church last night,” she said, “what about you just 
pulling the wool over all of ’em?” 

Again Mahala faced her with eyes of candour. 

“I really don’t think I did,” she said. “Edith was as 
handsome as a girl well could be last night, and I suspect 
her dress cost almost twice as much as mine.” 

“Not if you count ail the hours and hours of dainty 
handwork you put on it,” said Serena. “Em going 
through the kitchen and say ‘Howdy’ to Jemima.” 

“Oh, certainly,” answered Mahala. She turned and 
preceded Serena to the kitchen. She opened the door, and 
meeting Jemima’s glance, she gave her a sharp little frown 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 259 

and pulled down the corners of her mouth. There was a 
negative in the tilt of her head that Jemima well under¬ 
stood. As she stepped aside to let Serena pass, Mahala 
said to Jemima: “Here’s your friend come to have a visit 
with you. She’ll be wanting you to tell her everything 
about Commencement that I didn’t.” 

“Because it happened to be a secret,” put in Serena. 

“Exactly,” said Mahala, her eyes hard on Jemima’s face. 

Jemima shot back the answer for which she was waiting. 
With peace in her heart so far as Serena was concerned, 
Mahala closed the door and sought refuge in her room to 
avoid another unpleasant seance with her mother. 

At ten o’clock that morning Junior Moreland went into 
the bank, stopping a moment to chat with the bookkeeper 
and the cashier. 

He said jestingly: “I believe I’ll just step back and 
suggest to the President that I’ve left the bay and the 
presidential chair is floating on the ocean before me.” 

He lifted the latest model in straw hats from his hand¬ 
some dark head and laughed with the employees of the 
bank. 

“Don’t you think,” he said, “that I’d better get on 
the job and give Father a rest? I have a feeling that I’d 
make a dandy bank president.” 

With the laugh that went up pleasant on his ears, 
Junior opened the door of the back office and stepped in. 

He said to his father: “Dad, forget figures for a minuter 
I want to ask you something.” 

Moreland Senior indicated a chair. 


26 o 


THE WHITE FLAG 

“All right,” he said, “I am interested in anything you 
are. Out with it.” 

Junior hesitated. He was studying as to the best way 
of approaching his father. Should he begin with what had 
occurred the night before, or should he go back to the very 
beginning and explain that ever since he could remember, 
Mahala had been the one girl with whom he wanted to 
play, for whom he cared, that from the hour of earliest pre¬ 
conceptions, he had selected for his very own? As he 
stood hesitating, he felt his father’s eyes on his face and 
realizing that they were full of sympathy and encourage¬ 
ment, he smiled. It was a brave attempt at a smile, but 
it happened that the quiver of a disappointed four-year- 
old ran across his lips. The elder Moreland saw, and 
instantly a wave of rage surged through him. How would 
any one, any one at all, least of all a slip of a girl, dare to 
hurt Junior? 

“I don’t know,” he said in a deliberate voice, in which 
Junior instantly detected the strain of effort at self-con¬ 
trol, “that you’ve anything to tell me, Junior. I’ve known 
that you liked Mahala Spellman all your life. I even 
made it my business to get on the other side of that olean¬ 
der screen last night and hear what the young lady had 
to say. I m right here to tell you that if you want her, 
you needn’t pay the slightest attention to what she says. 

She’ll find before she gets through with it, she hasn’t got 
the say.” 

Junior studied his father in amazement. 

“I don’t understand,” he said. 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 


261 

Martin Moreland leaned back in his chair. With each 
word he uttered he brought the point of a pencil he was 
holding, down on the sheet of paper before him with a 
deliberate little tap that accented and clipped off each word 
with a finality and a certainty that were most reassuring. 

“I don't know," said the elder Moreland deliberately, 
“that I've made such a very good job of being your father. 
Your mother thinks not; but I have tried, Junior, with all 
my might. You should give me credit for that. Ten years 
ago I began to figure that to-day would come. At the same 
time, I began to plan how to get the whip hand. Let me 
tell you without any frills that I've got it. You can stake 
your sweet life that I’ve got it!" 

Junior crossed the room and sat down upon the arm of 
his father's chair. He ran his hands through his hair, and 
bending over, kissed him. 

“I haven't a notion what you mean, Dad," he said, “but 
you're the greatest man in all the world. You've always 
been away too good to me, but some of these days I'm go¬ 
ing to show you that it hasn't been wasted. You may go 
and travel clear around the world, if you want to, and I’ll 
run this business, and you'll find when you get back that 
you haven't lost a dollar and you’ve made a good many. 
I've been watching the way you play the game all my life. 
You bet I can play up to you! But this girl matter is an¬ 
other question. I don’t see how you're going to make 
Mahala change her mind if she doesn’t like me and doesn't 
want me." 

“You poor ninny!" said Martin Moreland scornfully. 


262 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“Can you look in your glass and tell yourself truthfully 
that there is such a thing as a girl that doesn’t want 
as handsome a young fellow as you are? Of course she 
wants you. But you’ve heard of chariot wheels, haven’t 
you? They’re an obsession that all women get in the 
backs of their heads. About Mahala’s period in their 
career every one of them wants to think of herself as riding 
in a chariot at the wheels of which she is dragging— the 
more supine lovers the better. There’s no such thing as 
getting the number too large. At the present minute, 
according to Miss Mahala, she has got you under her 
chariot wheels; she wants you to kneel and to cringe and 
to beg and to let her feel her power.” 

“I wonder now,” said Junior. “Of course, if that is 
what she wants-” 

“Well, you needn’t wonder,” said Moreland Senior. 
“Your Dad’s had some experience with women, let me tell 
you. He knows. And whenever a real he-man meets a 
woman who’s stressing this chariot idea to an uncomfort¬ 
able degree, it’s time for him to take the reins and do the 
driving for a while himself.” 

“But I don’t fancy driving Mahala would be such an 
easy job, even for a strong man,” said Junior, once more on 
his feet and pacing back and forth across the room. “I’ve 
spent the greater part of the day, ever since we were six 
years old, nine months out of the year, in the company of 
that young lady, and you don’t know her very well, Father, 
or you wouldn’t use the term ‘drive’ in connection with 
her.” 



THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 263 

“Don't I?" sneered Martin Moreland. “Don’t I, Son? 
Well, let me tell you something. For the past ten years 
Tve been loaning Mahlon Spellman every dollar I could 
get him to take, at the highest rate of interest the law 
would allow me to extract. Eve got him tied up finan¬ 
cially until he can't move hand or foot. I've got notes 
with his signature that will cover every dollar he’s worth 
in the world, store and house, and furnishings as well. I'm 
not right sure but that if I made a clean sweep, I’d stand 
to lose, I’ve gone so damn far getting the finnicky little 
pickaninny exactly where I want him. All you’ve got to 
do is to say the word and Miss Mahala will get down on 
her knees to you and ask you very humbly to please lift 
her up and keep her in the position she has always been 
accustomed to occupying." 

During the first part of this speech, Junior stood still 
in open-mouthed wonder. As his father progressed, he 
began to pace the floor again. As he finished, he was 
laughing and rubbing his hands. 

He cried out: “You are the greatest old Dad any man 
ever possessed! What's the use to wait? Put on the 
clamps to-day! Let Mr. Spellman see right now whether 
he can influence Mahala to marry me and to do it soon!" 

“Any time you say," said Martin Moreland, and the 
pencil came down with a vindictive tap. 

“You know," said Junior, “she's got this going-to- 
college bug in her bonnet. There's no sense to it. She's 
got all the education she’s ever going to have any use for. 
She can get the rest out of books she reads. Tve come in 


THE WHITE FLAG 


264 

here this morning to tell you that Vm ready to go to work. 
So should she. While Fm getting my hand in—and Fve 
got a notion of what my job should be and how I could 
help you to the best advantage—she can go into the kit¬ 
chen and have Jemima and her mother teach her enough 
about housekeeping so that she can manage a house as her 
mother does. Fm dead stuck on the way the Spellmans 
live. You can’t start the wheels. Dad, too soon to suit 
me. Let’s try this chariot you’re talking about and see 
who’s going to be the driver.” 

“Very well,” said Martin Moreland. “Tell the book¬ 
keeper to step across the street and say to Mahlon Spell¬ 
man that I want to see him for a few minutes in my office.” 

Mahlon Spellman sat at his desk facing a sheaf of 
bills—heavy ones from the East for spring dry goods, 
smaller ones from town connected with Mahala’s gradua¬ 
tion. He lifted his head, a harassed look upon his face, 
when the bookkeeper from the bank delivered Mr. 
Moreland’s message. Instinctively, his hands reached for 
his hair, and then paused in arrested motion. How did it 
come that Martin Moreland was sending for him as if he 
were a servant? What right had he to undertake to dic¬ 
tate? Nervously glancing at the row of ledgers facing 
him, and the overflowing pigeonholes before him, a wave 
of nausea swept his middle. 

He got up, and for the first time in years, he put on his 
hat and left the store without looking in the mirror. 
He iound that his hands were trembling as he climbed 
tjje bioad stone steps, flanked on either side by huge dogs 



THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 265 

—big bronze creatures of exaggerated proportions, with 
distended nostrils that seemed to be scenting dollars in¬ 
stead of any living thing, their chests broad, their ab¬ 
domens drawn in, their tails stiffly pointing. Cordially 
Mahlon Spellman hated them. He remembered the day 
upon which they had stood crated on the sidewalk before 
the bank and he had said to the banker: “Why dogs, 
Martin ? ” 

There had been the hint of a snarl in Martin’s voice 
as he had answered: “You’d prefer the conventional lion, 
would you, Mahlon ? Well, give me a dog of about that 
size and build every clip. Especially a dog that I’ve 
trained myself. Watch dogs of the Treasury. Instinct 
may be all right, but I prefer training when it comes to 
guarding the finances of the community!” 

There was nothing he could do to them with his hands. 
As Mahlon Spellman passed between the unyielding metal 
moulded in the form of powerful hunters, he felt as if he 
were a creature at bay, in danger of being tom and rended 
by their merciless jaws. He could not remember ever be¬ 
fore in his life having wanted to kick anything. He would 
have considered such a manifestation as extremely distaste¬ 
ful on the part of any gentleman; and he almost recoiled 
from himself as he stepped over the threshold with the 
realization strong upon him that he would have given a 
fine large sum, if he had had it to give, in order to have 
been able to kick both of those menacing bigbronze animals 
off their pedestals and into the farthest regions of limbo. 

In a minute more he was sitting in an easy chair finger- 


266 


THE WHITE FLAG 


ing a fragrant cigar and listening to the voice of Martin 
Moreland speaking so casually that he was quite disarmed. 
He was talking about the Commencement of the night 
before—how finely their young people had acquitted 
themselves; complimenting their schools and their teachers 
and the ability of the town to get together and handle an 
occasion like that in such a creditable manner to every 
one concerned. He was so suave, so extremely casual, 
so unlike the bronze dogs guarding his doorway, that 
Mahlon Spellman began watching him narrowly with the 
impression that there was something back of all this, and 
when Mr. Moreland looked him straight in the eye with 
the friendliest kind of a smile and inquired: “Does it 
impress you, Spellman, that my son and your daughter 
made the handsomest couple on the floor last night?” 
Mr. Spellman knew that the crux of the matter had been 
reached. 

He kept fingering the cigar in the hope that the motion 
might cover the trembling of his hands. His eyes nar¬ 
rowed and he tried to look far into the future. It was with 
some hesitation that he finally said: “I quite agree with 
you, Martin.” 

“Have you ever thought, Mahlon,” inquired Martin 
Moreland, “how very suitable a union between those two 
young people would be?” 

Again Mahlon Spellman hesitated. A ghastly sickness 
was gathering inside him. He had thought of that very 
thing, and he had hoped for it. But he never had the 
slightest intention of coercion. He did not like the look 



THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 267 

of this way of going about a betrothal. He had to say 
something. He said it hesitantly: “Yes, Tve thought 
about it. I have imagined that you were thinking about 
it. As soon as my daughter finishes college and becomes 
thoroughly settled in her own mind, I should like to join 
with you in the hope that they will think seriously con¬ 
cerning each other.” 

Martin Moreland had been decent almost as long as he 
was capable of self-control. Outstanding in his memory 
was a vision of Mahala, gowned like a princess, crowned 
with youth and beauty, scouring the touch of his boy’s 
lips from hers as if he had been a thing of contamination. 
There was an edge to his voice and a touch of authority as 
he cried: “Nonsense! Sending a girl to college is the 
quickest way to ruin her! Send her to the kitchen and 
teach her how to be an excellent housewife like her mother! 
My boy is wild about her. He always has been. There’s 
not a reason in the world why they shouldn’t get married 
this fall and settle down to business.” 

During this speech there rushed through Mahlon Spell¬ 
man’s mind, first of all because he was Mahlon, his own 
estimate of what had just been said to him and the man 
who had said it. Then he thought of what his wife would 
say, and then he thought of his daughter. 

Before he realized exactly what he was doing, he found 
his voice crying: “Impossible, Martin! Quite impossible! 
Mahala and her mother have their hearts set on the girl’s 
going to college. They have prepared for it for years. 
They have her clothing very well in hand, and in any event. 


268 


THE WHITE FLAG 


I don’t think Mahala has ever given marriage a thought, 
and in that matter, of course, I couldn’t attempt to coerce 
her.” 

All the cordiality dropped from Martin Moreland’s 
voice; all congeniality faded from his face. The lean lines 
into which it fell gave Mahlon Spellman a start, for he 
found they suggested to him the long head and the set 
face of the bronze dogs watching outside. There was 
something so casual that it was almost an insult in the way 
Martin Moreland reached into a pigeonhole he had previ¬ 
ously prepared in his desk and pulled out an imposing 
packet of papers. Slowly he began to open them and to 
spread them out on his desk. Mahlon Spellman, quiver¬ 
ing like a moth impaled on a setting board, surmised what 
those papers were. His surmise w T as of no help to the in¬ 
ternal disturbances at that minute racking him. 

As Moreland spoke, Mahlon Spellman forgot the bronze 
dogs, and there was something in the slick smoothness of 
the banker’s voice that made him think of a cat instead— 
a cat proportioned with the same exaggeration in com¬ 
parison with the remainder of its species as were the dogs; 
a cat big enough to take a man and roll him under its paws, 
and toss him up and set sharp teeth into him until he cried 
out, and let him think he was escaping, and draw him back 
with velvet paws the claws of which flashed out occa¬ 
sionally. 

“Your business is not very flourishing since the coming 
of the new store, is it, Mahlon?” asked Martin Moreland. 

Mahlon Spellman’s lips were dry, his throat was dry, 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 269 

his stomach was congested, his bowels were in spasms. He 
could do little more than tightly grip the arms of his chair 
and shake his head. 

“Is there any chance of your being able to pay even the 
interest on what you owe me?” asked Martin Moreland, 
now a man of business, staring penetrantly at Mr. Spell¬ 
man. 

Mahlon sank in his chair. He literally cowered. As 
he collapsed, it seemed to his tortured brain that Martin 
Moreland was increasing in size and consequence. He 
looked to Mahlon, in his hour of extremity, as much 
bigger and colder and harder than an ordinary man as 
were those damned dogs at his doorway bigger than an 
ordinary dog. There was insult, positive insult, in the 
way he gathered up the big sheaf of notes. How, in all 
God’s world, did there come to be so many? There 
seemed to be dozens and dozens of them. How did he 
dare to flip them through his fingers and leaf them over and 
beat them on the edge of his desk as if they were not the 
very heart and the blood and the brain, not only of himself 
but of his wife—his delicate, beautiful wife—and his 
daughter? And what was it that this fiend in human form 
was saying? 

“These cancelled notes would make Mahala a fine 
wedding present from me, now wouldn’t they, Mahlon?” 

Terrified, Mr. Spellman started to protest. Then the 
smile vanished from the banker’s face. He ceased to be 
like a cat and became like the bronze dogs again. He 
straightened up in his chair. He slipped a rubber around 



270 


THE WHITE FLAG 


the notes with a snap, put them back in the drawer which 
he locked with great deliberation; then, in a dry, hard 
voice, he said: “Mahlon, between men, business is business. 
Fm not overlooking the advantage to me of this union 
between your daughter and my son. Mahala is a smart 
girl and a pretty girl, and capable of being the kind of wife 
that her mother is, and I’d prefer her about ten thousand 
times to some girl that Junior might pick up in a minute of 
pique and marry, without giving consequences due con¬ 
sideration. That’s where the shoe pinches me. I don’t 
hesitate to admit it. This bunch of notes is where the 
same shoe pinches you. You go home and talk this over 
with your wife, then your daughter—with your wife 
especially. Elizabeth’s got the sense to see the point to 
things; especially if you explain to her the present con¬ 
dition of your business. As for the girl, no chit of 
Mahala’s age is supposed to know her own mind.” 

For the rest of that day Mahlon Spellman walked in a 
daze. In order to escape being seen by his clerks, he 
carried home an armload of books and papers, and going 
to his library, he plunged into them only to realize that by 
evading unpleasant things and putting them aside and 
living for the moment, he had also evaded the knowledge 
of how deeply he had been putting himself in the power of 
the Senior Moreland. 

At his moment of deepest despair, Mahala came into 
the room, her arms heaped with catalogues from girls’ 
schools. She pushed the ledgers and business papers 
aside, and spreading the catalogues out in front of him, 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 


271 


made a place for herself on the table facing him. After 
kissing him, she began holding the catalogues before him. 

“Forget your bothersome old bookkeeping, Father!” 
she cried. “Come help me to decide which is the very 
nicest college for me to attend. I must make my reser¬ 
vations as soon as possible.” 

Then she had a comprehensive look at her father’s face 
and knew fear herself. 

With the candour constantly controlling her, she cried: 
“Father, dear, forgive me! I didn’t know you were at im¬ 
portant business. We can select my college some other 
time. 

Mahala was on her feet, staring in wide-eyed terror, for 
her father’s head dropped on his arms on the table before 
him, and the nerve strain of many months, and of the 
day in particular, broke into great, shuddering sobs. 
Mahala, at a very few times in her life, had seen her 
father’s eyes moist with compassion, but she never in her 
life had seen any man cry as men do cry when their backs 
are against the wall and horrifying extremities yawn at 
their feet, when there comes to them the realization that 
they are not living for themselves, but for those that they 
truly love. 

In a minute, Mahala was on her father’s knees beside 
the table; her arms were around his neck; and by and 
by, when he had grown calmer and forced himself into 
quietness, she began asking comprehensive questions. 
With the memory of many months past culminating viv¬ 
idly before her, she was not long in realizing the difficulty. 


272 


THE WHITE FLAG 


With quick intuition and the clear insight that had always 
characterized her, she knew the situation. When her 
father assented to her question as to whether Mr. More¬ 
land was pressing him about money matters, she knew the 
essential thing that was necessary for her to know. 

“What a fool I’ve been,” she cried. “I’ve always 
wondered why Martin Moreland was so friendly to you, 
why he was constantly urging you to accept his offers of 
loans and trying to induce you to spend more money than 
you really should for subscriptions and things. I’ve won¬ 
dered and now I understand. Junior has sent me word 
that he’s coming here to-night, and he’s exactly like his 
father. He thinks that if he has enough money, he can buy 
anything in the world that he wants. Well, he is destined 
to learn that he hasn’t got enough money to buy me!” 

In a panic, Mr. Spellman grasped her arm. He im¬ 
plored her to think of her mother; to think of him; to 
think of herself. He tried to put into cold words that 
would make very clear to her understanding, the exact 
result of the ruin that would face them unless she pre¬ 
vented it. She laughed at him and told him it was lucky 
that her mother had forced her to learn to perform miracles 
with her needle. 

“Only think, Papa,” she cried, “how very capable I 
am! I can earn enough money with fancy embroidering 
and with sewing or millinery, to keep us all three in com¬ 
fort. Lift up your head. Go tell Martin Moreland to 
take what belongs to him. Thank God that I don’t be¬ 
long to him. He can’t buy either my body or my soul!” 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 


273 

In the midst of this Mrs. Spellman opened the door. 
Her husband and her daughter were so engrossed that 
they did not notice her. She stepped back and stood lis¬ 
tening, first in amazement, then in sickening fear, at the 
end in rising defiance. At Mahala’s last words, she came 
into the room. She took a stand beside her. She put 
her arm around her and told her that she was right. 

She said to her husband: “No, Mahlon, Martin More¬ 
land shall not force Mahala to marry Junior unless she has 
given him her love. Much as I should like to see her 
Junior’s wife and presiding in the lovely home that he 
would provide for her, I say that she shall not be forced to 
take the step in order to insure comfort for us.” 

Mahlon Spellman held up a shaking hand. 

“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, be quiet!” he panted. 
“You don’t know. You don’t understand. Are you 
contemplating what being forced from the store, from this 
house, of being stripped of the greater part of its furnish¬ 
ings, is going to mean ? How am I to face the world bank¬ 
rupt, ruined, with not a penny for your care?” 

Hopefully his eyes clung to the face of his wife; and in 
slow bewilderment, he saw her desert him. She only 
tightened her grip on Mahala. She only lifted her deli¬ 
cate head higher, and looked at him with calm delibera¬ 
tion. 

“Don’t feel so badly, my dear,” she said. “All our 
lives together you have taken beautiful care of me and 
we’ve done our best for Mahala. If you have allowed 
yourself to fall into the clutches of a man like Martin 


274 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Moreland, it’s nothing more than hundreds, yes, thousands 
of other men in this village and this county, and many 
adjoining, have done. It is very possible that some other 
man in exactly your position is represented by nearly 
every transfer of real estate to the name of Martin More¬ 
land that the county recorder makes. Let him take the 
store, let him take this house, let him take these furnish¬ 
ings, if we owe him that amount of money. He cannot 
take Mahala unless she is willing, unless she loves and 
hopefully desires to marry Junior.” 

Deserted by his wife, Mahlon Spellman’s head dropped 
once more on the table before him. Sick, afraid, defeated, 
he groaned in anguish. He allowed his wife and Mahala to 
help him to the sofa where they put a pillow under his 
head and covered him warmly. They brought him a cup 
of strong tea; and after a time, when he lay quiet as they 
tiptoed from the room, they decided that he had gone to 
sleep, so they went upstairs to talk the situation over. 

During this talk, Mahala began slowly to discern that 
the valiant stand her mother had taken had been one of 
impulse, because Elizabeth Spellman was impulsive, and 
her first impulse on matters concerning Mahala was to be 
natural. When she took time to think things over, to 
reason, to elaborate, she was very likely to be swayed by 
custom, by public opinion, by financial advantage. It was 
plain to the girl that in a short time she would be forced 
to combat the feelings of her mother as well as those of 
her father. 

Youth is undaunted, full of hope, full of confidence. 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 


275 


Ever since she could remember, Mahala had been in close 
contact with Junior much of the time. She was thoroughly 
familiar with the domineering traits of his disposition, his 
selfishness, his evasions, his cruelty, so like his father’s, to 
those in social or financial position that he deemed beneath 
him. In a few minutes alone, before his arrival that eve¬ 
ning, she had tried to face the situation fairly; and in those 
minutes she had realized that all during the past year 
there had been a feeling of unrest and disquiet, and a 
vague wondering if trouble might not be coming her way. 
She found that she had been fortifying herself against it; 
that she had been planning for it; that she had been 
wondering what she would do if it came. Now that it 
was here, there was only one thing that she could do. If 
her father was in Martin Moreland’s debt to the extent of 
the store, of the valuable lands in which he had speculated, 
of their home even, then those things must be turned over 
to Martin Moreland even as the homes and the lands 
and the businesses of other men had been turned 
over to him. She realized now, as she never had before, 
that instead of being a tower of strength, her father had 
been a tower of weakness. In order to give her and her 
mother all the comfort and the joy to be gotten from life, 
he had brought this upon them. He had not had the 
strength of will to refuse them anything. He had wanted 
them to think that he was such a wonderful business man, 
so very successful, that he could pamper them and give 
them pleasure to any extent. At his elbow for years there 
had stood the man who had understood his disposition and 


276 THE WHITE FLAG 

preyed upon his weakness, and who would now reap a rich 
harvest. 

Mahala was sufficiently practical to know that, in a 
foreclosure, property would go for half of its real value. 
She tried to think if there was some one to whom her 
father could turn for a loan that would give them time to 
dispose of the store and of lands and even of the house, at 
something like a fair valuation. Resolutely she went 
down to the library. She peeped in and saw her father 
still lying in a stupor that she supposed was natural sleep. 
She tiptoed to the desk, and sitting down, she began going 
over the long columns of his account book. At the foot 
of every page of entries a wave of indignation and scorn 
swept her being. But all of her anger was not directed 
against Martin Moreland; all of her pity was not expended 
upon the man lying in collapse in that same room. She 
was a woman now, and her mother had been a woman 
ever since she had married Mahlon Spellman—a woman 
with a good brain and a keen mind. She should have 
made it her affair to know something of her husband’s 
business; she should have refused instead of placing her 
name upon mortgages and papers that imperilled their 
home and their living. Instead of laughing and dancing 
and studying her way through school, at least after she 
knew that her father was troubled, Mahala felt that she 
should have inquired into his affairs, herself. She should 
have tried to help him. She should not have spent the 
large sums that she had upon clothing and things she 
might have done without. 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 


277 


Since recrimination did no good, since she could think 
of no one who might help them in their hour of extremity, 
she was forced back to the original proposition of trying 
to determine what there was that she could do herself. 
Once she had a fleeting thought of Edith Williams. She 
knew that her uncle held large sums in trust for her. For 
a moment she wondered if Edith could secure for her a 
sum that would stay matters until they could be fairly 
adjusted. She remembered that even in personal ex¬ 
penses Edith always had been extremely close; that she 
would only spend money where she had a definite object 
in view, and in thinking deeply, there came to her the 
realization that it was barely possible that what Edith 
Williams would rather see than any other one thing was 
Mahala’s downfall instead of her salvation. Dimly 
there crept into Mahala’s mind the confused thought that 
not only Edith but many others might be glad to see her 
broken and humiliated. That, she resolved, they should 
not see. If what she had considered theirs was truly 
Martin Moreland’s, he must have it. She had enjoyed 
her good time, now she would work. 

She made herself as beautiful as possible and she was 
perfectly controlled when Jemima called her that evening. 
She found that on account of the humidity, or possibly in 
order that he might speak with her alone, Junior had taken 
a chair on the front veranda. When she went to him, she 
saw that he had brought her a huge bouquet of delicate 
flowers and an extravagantly large box of candy. All day 
the house had been sickening with the damp odour of the 


THE WHITE FLAG 


278 

dozens of bouquets crowded everywhere. The piano was 
still loaded with pounds of candy that she must speedily 
give away or see it wasted in the heat. The very sight 
of the flowers faintly sickened her. She dropped them on 
the porch table and left Junior to relieve himself of the 
candy. Then she sat on a long bench running the length 
of the porch, sheltered by vines. Junior came over and 
seated himself beside her. 

His first words were extremely unfortunate for he 
asked: “What has aroused the temper of my fair lady?” 

Mahala felt that “temper” was not the correct word 
to describe the state of mind which Junior must know 
possessed her. Certainly she resented the assumption 
that she belonged to him. A sneer flashed across her face. 
At sight of it Junior lost his head. He threw his arms 
around her and tried again to kiss her. She roughly re¬ 
pulsed him, and there flew from her lips words she was 
sorry for the moment she had said them. 

“Junior Moreland, if you had any sense, you would 
leave me alone! I know a girl who is crazy about you. 
Why don’t you pay your attentions to her?” 

Then Junior was possessed with anger. He had been en¬ 
couraged by both his father and his mother to believe that 
he really had some rights where Mahala was concerned. * 

In a voice tense with emotion, he said to her: “Ever 
since you’ve known anything, you’ve known that I in¬ 
tended to marry you when we grew up, and you’ve always 
been nice and friendly with me. What is the matter with 
you now?” 


279 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 

Mahala drew back. 

She waited until she could speak smoothly, and then 
she said deliberately: “I don’t see how you can hold me 
responsible for what you’ve intended. If your father and 
mother were not stone blind with pride and conceit, they 
would know, and you would know, what this whole town 
thinks about the Morelands.” 

Angered further by this, Junior retorted: “And what’s 
the whole town going to think when it finds out that the 
Spellmans will be in the poorhouse if my father chooses to 
foreclose the mortgages and demand payments on the 
notes that he holds on everything you’ve got on earth?” 

In his anger and excitement, he had forgotten even to 
lower his voice. Inside the window, Mahlon Spellman, 
roused by his tones and the import of what he was saying, 
struggled to his feet and stood listening, one hand on a 
chair back steadying him, the other clutching his heart. 

Under the nerve strain, big tears began slowly to slip 
down Mahala’s cheeks. That word “poorhouse” brought 
something menacing and gravelv real to her vision. She 
knew where the county poorhouse was and what it was. 
She had gone there with her mother at Thanksgiving and 
Easter and Christmas times to try to carry a degree .of 
cheer. Could it be possible that such a place threatened 
her father and her mother? 

The tears softened Junior. He commenced to plead 
with her. 

He said to her: “There’s no sense in a girl wasting 
time to go to college. You know how to sew and to keep 


28 o 


THE WHITE FLAG 


a house beautifully. If you need a little help with the 
cooking, you can soon learn. You would only have to 
superintend. I could afford servants for you from the 
very start. Dad’s crazy about you. He’d do anything 
in the world I wanted for you. Forget this college 
business. I can’t eat calculus and radicals or drink 
syntax and prosody. You’re all right for me and for Ash- 
water, exactly the way you are!” 

He started to seize her roughly, but divining his in¬ 
tentions, she swiftly evaded him and swung a heavy porch 
chair between them, and then, anger surging up to a degree 
overcoming fear, she spat at him her real thoughts. 

“ You coward! You always have been a coward! You 
always will be! You never picked on a boy in school 
unless you were twice his size. You never passed an ex¬ 
amination without cheating. You even made the Princi¬ 
pal fix up the grades that allowed you to graduate. 
You’ve never cared what happened to any other girl or 
boy so long as you were the leader and had what you 
wanted.” 

At that Junior turned ugly. He stepped back and be¬ 
gan to sneer. 

“What about the leader you have been, dressed in your 
fine clothes from your father’s bankrupt store?” 

Mahaia lifted her head and dried her eyes. 

“I never cheated any one out of their property,” she 
said. “My father is only one out of dozens of men whose 
fortunes have been deliberately wrecked by your father. 
If I can’t afford the clothing I’m wearing, I’ll take it off 


THE DRIVER OF THE CHARIOT 


281 

and put on what I can, and Til earn with my own hands 
what I need to take care of myself and my father, too!” 

Then Junior shouted with rough laughter. He pointed 
to her hands, and at sight of them, and at the thought of 
them being forced to work for a living, he tried to catch 
hold of them. 

“And what is it you propose to do with those mighty 
hands of yours?” he asked. 

Mahala held them up and looked at them speculatively. 

“I’ll admit that they’re small, and that they’re white,” 
she said, “but they’re strong as steel, and if you’ll be 
pleased to observe closely, you’ll notice further that they’re 
clean.” 

Then Junior tried another tack. 

“What about your mother?” he said. “Haven’t you 
got the sense to realize that it will kill your father to lose 
his business standing, to be stamped a failure before the 
community ? Don’t you know that it will kill your mother 
to be driven from this house and to try to live in skimpy, 
ugly poverty? Don’t be a silly fool!” 

Then Mahala stepped back. 

She said quietly: “I’ve always tried to treat you kindly, 
Junior. I’ve always hoped that you might see what it 
was in your power to become, and change your ways. But 
you never have. You don’t see even now where you’re 
wrong. You don’t understand now why I’d die, and let 
my father and mother die with me, before I’d marry you 
and bring little children, who would be like you, into the 
world. I loathe the kind of man your father has deliber- 


2 82 THE WHITE FLAG 

ately made of you. I’d rather see all or us dead than to 
see us forced into the power of your horrible father!” 

Inside the window that verdict struck Mahlon Spellman 
straight to the heart. Both of his hands were clutched 
into his aching breast as he slid forward across the chair 
beside which he was standing. 


CHAPTER XII 


Those Who Serve 

O UTSIDE, Junior Moreland’s inherent cruelty as¬ 
serted itself. His face was transformed by anger 
and astonishment. His fists were clenched and 
his face distorted as he cried to Mahala: “All right! If 
you refuse to marry me, it won’t be many days before 
you’ll be kneeling to my father imploring him for mercy!” 

Possessed of spirit far above his own, Mahala laughed 
at him tauntingly. 

“How perfectly true you are to your teachings and 
environment!” she said. “Why put the dirty work on 
your father? Why don’t you say that you’ll force me to 
kneel to you and implore your mercy? Your words and 
the look on your face this minute prove conclusively the 
thing I’ve always, deep down in my heart, known about 
you. Won’t you have the decency to go?” 

Mahala stood still, watching Junior down the walk and 
through the gate, and as he went, dimly she visioned beside 
him the wraith of the girl she always had been. She lifted 
her hands and looked at them questioningly. She had 
made her boasts as to what she could do with them. She 
thoroughly understood that by the time Junior could reach 
his father and confide in him, her hour would have come. 

283 


THE WHITE FLAG 


284 

Again she looked back at her hands, small, delicately 
shaped, soft and white as a child’s. Unconsciously, she 
opened and closed them and stretched out her arms to 
test her strength; then she turned to the door. 

On entering the living room, she saw her father, whom 
she had forgotten in the excitement of her meeting with 
Junior. Rushing to him, she tried to lift his head, to 
change his position. One glance at the window told her 
that he had awakened and had heard. She ran her hands 
over his set face, then slipped them under his vest to the 
region of his heart, and to her horror, found that it was 
still. Then she lost self-control and screamed wildlv, 
and this brought her mother and Jemima, who rushed 
about summoning help and sending for a doctor. 

Leaving the Spellman home, Junior hurried to the bank. 
He went to his father’s room and told him in detail what 
had happened. He said that he was convinced that Ma- 
hala really disliked him; that she had possessed the courage 
to tell him what it was in him that she hated; that she had 
defied him; that she had said she would prefer seeing her 
father and mother give up their lives with her, rather than 
to contract a marriage with him. He repeated her use 
of the expression “your horrible father.” The face of 
Martin Moreland so reflected the ugly elements in his 
heart that Junior, staring at him, drew back, half afraid. 
Suddenly he dimly realized what it might have been that 
Mahala had seen and which she feared and loathed. 
But Junior was so like his father that this realization was 
a momentary thing and it passed, because watching him, 


THOSE WHO SERVE 


285 


Martin Moreland, the astute reader of the faces and hearts 
of his fellow men, saw that he was allowing too much of 
his personality to be mirrored by his face. So he covered 
it for a moment with his hands and made a physical effort 
to control himself. 

There never had been sweeter music to his ears than the 
voice of his son asking him to start immediately the legal 
forms of attaching all the Spellman property that they 
could find. With any other man Martin Moreland 
might have gone through a pretence of dreading to do this. 
With his son it was not necessary. He drew his lean 
hands across each other and moistened his lips. The 
malevolence of his smile he made no effort to conceal. 

“Ten years is a long time,” he said in his cold, incisive 
voice, “to put into the building up of a structure, and it’s 
twice as long when it must be put into the tearing down. 
The care used in building is not necessary in demolition. 
Wewill now pull the underpinnings from Mahlon Spellman, 
his sweet wife, Elizabeth, and the precious darling, and 
well watch them topple and fall.” 

That afternoon father and son, ostentatiously accom¬ 
panied by the sheriff, went to the dry-goods store. As 
they approached the door upon which the official was to 
nail the notice of attachment, they were amazed to see 
heavy streamers of black crepe fluttering from it, and they 
learned for the first time, that while they had been closeted 
with their lawyer working out details of the business, 
Mahlon Spellman had escaped them. They would never 
have the pleasure of seeing him with his heart broken and 


286 


THE WHITE FLAG 


his proud body bowed. If they ever saw him again, it 
would be when the dignity of death had set its ennobling 
mask upon his features. 

The groan that broke from the lips of Martin More¬ 
land was taken by the sheriff to be the product of com¬ 
passion. He looked at him curiously. He had thought 
he was a man who would enjoy the business with which he 
was occupied. 

His voice was softened to sympathy as he said: “I 
supposed you knew. They say it was heart trouble, that 
he’d been bad with it for a year, but he was too proud to 
let any one know.” 

It was the elder Moreland who reached a detaining 
hand, saying: “We’d better defer this business till after 
the funeral.” 

It was Junior, his handsome face sharpened to wolf¬ 
like lines, who said tersely: “Brace up, Dad. You’ve 
always told me that business was business. It’s too 
bad about the old man, but what’s it got to do with us? 
If this doesn’t turn the trick, nothing will. Nail it up!” 

The sheriff was shocked. He protested. Martin 
Moreland ordered him to tack the notice above the crepe 
on the store door, but to delay placing the one upon the 
residence until after the funeral. 

As they turned away. Junior remarked: “I didn’t think 
you were so chicken-hearted, Dad. Why don’t you go 
through with it? Why don’t you give them all that’s 
coming to them at once?” 

Martin Moreland walked in silence for a minute. Then 


THOSE WHO SERVE 


287 

he said quietly: “Junior, did you ever hear of a boomerang? 
It’s supposed to be a weapon that you throw at some one 
else with the knowledge that it may miss its mark and 
return and bury itself in your own heart. There are plenty 
of people in this town who would be overjoyed at an op¬ 
portunity to get their arrows into my heart. A wrong 
move in the present situation would in my judgment be 
risking the boomerang. It’s better to go slow, to make a 
pretence of sympathy and let the law, which happens to 
be inevitable once it starts, and inexorable under headway, 
do the remainder for us.” 

This was why, during the days when Mahlon Spellman 
lay stretched upon the sofa, an expression of noble dignity 
on his face and forehead, that his front door bore only 
a wreath of myrtle and roses with floating ribbons of 
purple. 

For the remainder of the day and during the first night 
following Mahlon’s passing, Mahala had faced the pros¬ 
pect of meeting life alone. Elizabeth Spellman had been 
so deeply shocked, so terrified and hurt, that she had 
succumbed and had gone down to the verge of ultimate 
collapse. It required the utmost efforts of Jemima, of 
Doctor Grayson, and friends of the Spellmans who came 
in flocks, to keep the proud and dainty woman alive. 
When her inherent strength triumphed over the blow that 
had been dealt her heart, her brain, and her body, she 
lay stretched upon her bed, one hand gripping into the 
coverlet that had been accustomed to covering Mahlcn’s 
heart, the other clutching her own. The friends who at- 


288 


THE WHITE FLAG 


tended her were compelled to watch closely in order to 
discover that she was breathing at all. 

By the arrival of the third day the town had talked 
the matter over. Men had carried home news of the 
attachment upon the Spellman store. Women in passing 
had stopped and read it with horrified eyes. It was the 
talk of the streets and through the homes, that, but for 
the banker’s decency in the matter, the same attachment 
would now be decorating the Spellman front door. No 
one ever had thought of or voiced such a thing before. 
Mahlon Spellman s dealings in real estate, the outward and 
visible sign of prosperity displayed by the Spellman home, 
the wife and the daughter, the constant attitude of Mahlon 
himself, had thoroughly convinced the citizens of his town 
that he was quite as prosperous as he desired every one 
to think that he was. Now it required the three days, 
and in some instances, longer, for people to adjust them¬ 
selves to the idea that what they had thought was a pillar 
of stone was really one of papiermache—a thing that 
could be picked up, crushed, and broken within an hour. 
Strictly in accordance with the old manifestations of 
human nature, the snake tongues of envy and jealousy and 
greed broke loose. The unconscious Mahlon, lying in in¬ 
articulate dignity, became a target. First people exclaimed 
in horror. They shed tears of sympathy. Very speedily 
they reached the point where they dissected Mahlon as an 
expert surgeon would use a knife. They laughed at his 
weaknesses. They felt for their ties; they flecked their 
sleeves; they looked at their shoes with exaggerated care. 



THOSE WHO SERVE 


289 

Women who only a week before had supposed themselves 
to be the dearest friends of Elizabeth Spellman, suddenly 
discovered that she had been too proud, and that “pride 
always goes before a fall.” Like a pack of hungry wolves 
they tore and worried every manifest characteristic of the 
dainty little woman who lay unconscious on the borderland. 
They blamed her every extravagance in the furnishing 
of her home. They pointed out the number of mantles, 
of shawls, and new gowns, of shoes and of bonnets, that 
she wore during a year. They sneered at the weakness 
which had made her spend her time and strength upon 
dressing and rearing Mahala as she had done. The air was 
thick with cold-blooded old maxims. Upon each lip there 
was heard the terse, sneering comment: “The higher you 
climb, the harder you fall.” Through curiosity they 
rallied around Mahala with some show of sympathy until 
her father had been borne to the church, down the aisle 
of which he had loved to walk in his pride, and then to 
his final resting place in the Ashwater cemetery out on 
the River Road, where the birds sang among the maples 
and the river, in a monotone, accompanied them all day; 
where in spring the cradle swung through the golden wheat 
and in fall the lowing of cattle was heard on the hills. 

The next day the sheriff decorated the Spellman front 
door with a copy of the writ of attachment that appeared 
upon the store. Mahala was told by Albert Rich, the 
lawyer who knew more of her father’s affairs than any one 
else, and who had offered his help in her extremity, that 
there was very little if anything that could be saved, the 


290 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Moreland claims were so heavy, so numerous. He would 
search the records diligently, and any possible thing that 
could be salvaged he would try to secure for her. He 
told her that the law would allow her to take for her use 
six hundred dollars’ worth of the household furniture, and 
looking at him with sick eyes, Mahala had said almost to 
space instead of to Attorney Rich: “My piano cost fifteen 
hundred.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Albert Rich. “You mustn’t think 
of pianos to-day, my dear. You must think of a cook 
stove, a couple of beds, some bedding, dishes, and those 
things which you absolutely must have.” 

From this interview Mahala went to the kitchen and 
laid her head on the breast of Jemima. 

Jemima, she said, now that you’ve had time to 
think things over, where do you stand? Do you feel 
toward us as you always did, or have you discovered that 
We are examples of monumental extravagance, whitened 
sepulchres who intentionally deceived our friends and 
neighbours?” 

Jemima lifted a stove lid and poked the fire expertly. 
Then she carefully wiped her hands upon the corner of 
her apron, and took Mahala into her arms. 

“You poor little lamb,” she said. “If I could get 
at tne necks or some of these old hens that have let vou 
hear what they’re saying, I’d wring ’em good and proper! 
The other day Serena Moulton came nosin’ into my kit¬ 
chen with her whitened-sepuichre sentiments droolin’ from 
her lips, and I told her pretty quick to cheese it and get 


THOSE WHO SERVE 


291 

where she belonged among the other cats that was given 
over to clawin’!” 

Mahala gripped her arms around Jemima’s broad shoul¬ 
ders and buried her face in her warm breast and cried 
until she was exhausted. Jemima sat down in the one 
easy chair conceded to her idle moments in the kitchen 
and held the girl closely. 

“Don’t you think I don’t understand, honey,” she said, 
“and don’t you mind. You just cry till you get through, 
then you wipe up your eyes and pick out what it is that 
you want to take with you that the law will let you have. 
I been thinkin’ for you in these days when you haven’t 
had the time to think for yourself. I’ve had Jimmy Price 
and his wife clean the stuff out of my house and haul it 
over to my sister’s in Bluffport. She’s got plenty of 
room to pack it away. Talkin’ with Jason Peters when he 
brought in the groceries, I’ve found out that Peter Potter 
will let him use his delivery wagon to move things for us. 
Mrs. Price and Jimmy have got the house all clean, and 
while it’s nothing to compare with here, it’s shelter till you 
can look around and see what you can do. Fast as you 
make up enough bundles for a wagonload, Jason will stop 
and haul ’em over for you free and for nothing.” 

Mahala sat up and wiped her eyes. 

“Jemima,” she said, “only a week ago I thought I was 
possessed of what’s commonly spoken of as a Tost of 
friends.’ To-day that host has dwindled to you, Albert 
Rich, Peter Potter, Jason Peters, and possibly Susanna 
Bowers. Do you realize that Edith Williams has not been 


292 


THE WHITE FLAG 


here since the day after Papa went? Mrs. Williams hasn’t 
been but once, and since that writ of attachment is nailed 
on our front door, you’d think that it read ‘Leprosy’ in¬ 
stead of anything connected merely with dollars and 
cents.” 

“Never mind, honey,” said Jemima. “Put this in your 
pipe and smoke it. Fair-weather friends ain’t no good any¬ 
way. Them as sticks when the storm comes is the only 
ones that’s worth having. Now you go pick out the things 
you want Jason to move. I’m goin’ to stay right with 
you and take care of your Ma and cook for you, and you 
needn’t bother about payin’ me anything. I’ve been paid 
too much already. I bought my place with money I earned 
here. Whatever you do, you’ve got to do with your 
fingers. It’s all you know. You write out the kind of a 
sign you want to use and I’ll have Jason paint it like he 
paints them nice, stylish signs he sticks up fresh every day 
in Peter Potter’s windows. He’s real expert at it. He’ll 
fix you a nice one and trim it up fancy, and he’ll put it 
in the front yard, and then you’ll soon find out whether 
there’s goin’ to be anything in this town you can do that 
will furnish us bread and maybe a slatherin’ of butter once 
in a while.” 

Mahala arose, wiped her eyes, and for the first time 
in her life, she used her hands at work that was essential 
and not for the beautification of her person or her home 
With Jemima’s help she tried conscientiously to make a 
selection of what would be a fair six hundred dollars’ worth 
of the things that would be essential in the furnishing of 


THOSE WHO SERVE 


293 

Jemima’s little house that she had rented since her hus¬ 
band’s death and her only son had married and moved to 
Chicago. Whenever Jason delivered a load of groceries, 
he drove a few blocks out of his way, and stopping at the 
Spellman residence, carefully swept out the wagon, spread 
newspapers over the bottom, and piled in as much furni¬ 
ture and household goods as the horse could draw com¬ 
fortably, and moved them to Jemima’s house. 

Peter Potter had suggested that he should do this. 

Coming in after the delivery of a load, Jason said to 
Peter: “Those women are being too honest. They’re not 
taking enough to make them comfortable. It’s a crime!” 

"It’s worse than a crime,” said Peter. “It’s an out¬ 
rage. I’ll tell you what let’s do. Let’s take this matter 
into our own hands. Let’s fix up a plan between us and 
the night the folks move out, let’s go and get what’s right 
and fair they should have. We can store it in the upstairs 
here, or in your room, till they get to the place where 
they’ve a bigger house and use for it again.” 

That plan Jason endorsed with enthusiasm. The eve¬ 
ning of a hard day, Jemima hitched up the Spellman horse 
and she and Mahala helped Elizabeth into the surrey and 
drove her to her new home, and then gave the keys to 
Jason. He was to return the horse and in the morning 
turn over the property to the sheriff. That night was the 
busiest in the life of Jason and Peter. The tongue of the 
exhausted delivery horse was almost hanging from its 
mouth. There were narrow streaks of red in the east 
when the conspirators sneaked into the alley behind the 


294 


THE WHITE FLAG 


grocery with the last load that they felt they dared take. 
Jason spent the day carrying these things to the rooms 
which Peter Potter had made for him over the grocery. 

When the returns from the public auction of the Spell¬ 
man furnishings were brought to the Moreland bank, 
Martin Moreland was dumbfounded that they should have 
been so small. Pie talked about going to the new Spell¬ 
man home and taking an inventory of what had been kept, 
but when he mentioned it at home, Mrs. Moreland said 
quietly: “Martin, for your own sake and for the boy’s 
sake, don’t push that matter any further. There’s a 
reaction against the Spellmans right now because people 
can begin to see what big fools they were to do such a 
lot of things they couldn’t afford, but there’s never 
a wave breaks on the shore but some of the water runs 
back to the sea. There’s going to be a considerable back¬ 
wash in this affair. From what I can see and hear, 
Mahala’s holding up her head and going at this thing so 
bravely, that by and by there’s bound to be a reaction. 
If you press things too hard and cut too close, it’ll be 
Worse for you, for the boy, and for me, too, in the long 
run. Besides that, from the list of property you’ve at¬ 
tached that I read in the papers, it looks to me like you’ve 
got about three times what you should have had anyway.” 

A slow grin overspread the face of Martin Moreland. 

“Three times?” he said. “Well, maybe. But in in¬ 
terest I usually aim to get about ten per cent. I don’t 
know why you’d think in a deal like this that I’d be satis¬ 
fied merely to triple things.” 


THOSE WHO SERVE 


295 

Mrs. Moreland stood very still. Then she looked at 
her husband reflectively. 

“Would it be any use for me to ask you,” she said 
quietly, “to go as light as you can? I don’t often inter¬ 
fere in business. I don’t recall that I ever have before, 
but I like Mrs. Spellman. I liked Mr. Spellman. I liked 
all of them. I thought they were fine people, and so did 
every one else. I can see from the aggregate that you’ve 
been piling—I mean, Mahlon Spellman’s been piling—up 
heaps of indebtedness all these years. You shouldn’t have 
let him do it. His affairs could have been managed-” 

“Now right here is where you stop,” said Martin More¬ 
land tersely. “You don’t know a damned thing that 
you’re talking about. You’re only indulging in guess 
work. If you feel that you have a conscience that must 
be satisfied in this matter, you come down to the bank 
and take a look at the notes, the mortgages, and the loans 
that I’ve made that poor fool, carrying him along, trying 
in every way to save his property and to help him out, till 
it got to the place where I just good naturedly had to get 
the money out of it or run the risk of smashing myself.” 

Mrs. Moreland closed her lips and stood in meditation. 

At last she remarked: “They tell me that, stuck up big 
and white and all painted up fancy as if it were a thing to 
be proud of, Mahala has got a sign in the front dooryard 
asking to make over hats and remodel dresses.” 

“She has,” said Martin Moreland. “I took the pains 
to see it myself. It’s very big and the letters are most 
artistic; there’s a glitter about it and it reads: ‘Miss 



THE WHITE FLAG 


296 

Mahala Spellman will remodel your last year's gown and 
hat in the latest Parisian mode. Let her show you how 
fashionable an expert needle can make you appear.’ ” 

“For mercy sake!” said Mrs. Moreland, and then a 
glint came into her eyes and a look of determination to 
her face. “Well, I call that pretty nervy,” she said, 
“for a girl that’s been raised as she has, and has been ex¬ 
pecting all her life to go to one of the best colleges in the 
land this fall, for four years more of pampering, I must 
say I like her pluck!” 

Martin Moreland grinned. 

“I wonder what you’d think,” he said, “if I should tell 
you what the young lady you admire so much has to 
say about your son and about me.” And then he told 
her what had occurred. But he did not tell her that be¬ 
cause it had occurred, the writs of attachment had been 
issued at that time. He finished by saying: “Since you 
so greatly admire the young lady, by all means be her first 
patron. I’ve never seen you when either your gown or 
your hat wouldn’t have been better for an application of 
Spellman taste.” 

Mrs. Moreland thought the matter over. 

“Martin, I wonder at you,” she said slowly. “Of course, 
it makes me mad to have her treat Junior the lovely way 
she always has, and then suddenly turn on him like this. I 
can’t imagine why she did it. I can’t believe she really 
meant it.” 

“Junior believes that she meant it,” he said tersely. 

“Anyway,” said Mrs. Moreland, “I couldn’t possibly 


THOSE WHO SERVE 


297 


follow your suggestion since you issued those attachments 
and made the foreclosure. It wouldn’t look right for me 
to be the first, or among the first, to go and offer Mahala 
work.” 

Martin Moreland’s laugh was so genuine that he almost 
convinced his wife of its spontaneity. 

“Well, it would look good to me,” he said. “It would 
look like just exactly the right and proper thing.” 

At the new Spellman home, with Jemima and Mahala 
at the task of ministering to the stricken woman and ar¬ 
ranging the house, matters progressed speedily. In a day 
or two things were in a reasonable state of order. Lying 
in her own bed in the tiny, dingy room, Elizabeth Spellman 
kept her eyes shut, because every time she opened them 
her surroundings struck her dainty, beauty-loving soul a 
blow that brought into full realization the height and the 
depth of her loss. It was these shocking, ugly things ob¬ 
truding themselves that threw her back constantly upon 
the greater proposition which constituted the loss of Mah- 
lon. She had believed in him; she had loved him; she had 
waited upon him; she had well nigh worshipped him. He 
had completely satisfied her every desire and ambition. 
She had no conception of life that would not allow them 
to go hand in hand, as they had gone every day since 
their marriage, down a peaceful path that was supposed 
to end at the pearly gates. Elizabeth had no vision of 
Mahlon that did not encompass him marching in full pride, 
head erect and unchallenged, through these same pearly 
gates, and even the desire to be with and to help Mahala, 


THE WHITE FLAG 


298 

could not keep her from wishing that hand in hand with 
him, she was marching beside him now. She could con¬ 
ceive of no reason in her orderly life as to why she should 
be challenged entrance. “Sweeping through the gates” 
with her was a literal proposition. She was sorry in her 
soul that when Mahlon swept through, she had not been 
with him, and her deepest wish at the moment was that 
she might join him as speedily as possible. She felt in 
her heart that it was impossible for her to survive ugliness 
and poverty and pity, not to mention the contempt, of 
her former friends and neighbour. She did not want to 
see any of them. She was than’ ful when they remained 
away. The few who came in order to inventory and re¬ 
port what had been saved, had not been able to control 
either their eyes or their lips. 

Elizabeth Spellman was not mentally brilliant, but she 
was far from a fool. She could translate what was said to 
her with accuracy. No matter what was said, so long as 
she looked into eyes, she saw what the lips would say were 
they really honest. She asked to see no one and refused 
whoever called if it were a possible thing. She was not 
interested in anything. She made no effort. She simply 
lay still, and what time was not devoted to a dazed sum¬ 
mary of her calamity and a struggle to think how and why 
it had befallen her, she spent upon Mahala. 

She decided that she had not known Mahala; that she 
was not the delicate, sensitive creature she had thought 
her. She admitted that she had failed miserably in rear¬ 
ing her. How could the girl come into her presence with 


THOSE WHO SERVE 


299 

her curls twisted into a rough knot on the top of her head, 
her body tied up in one of Jemima’s big kitchen aprons, 
her hands and arms visibly soiled, at times even her face? 
She would have had more respect for Mahala if the girl 
had lain down upon her bed, folded her hands, and an¬ 
nounced that the blow was too severe for her. It is quite 
possible that, in such an event, Elizabeth might have 
arisen and gone to work herself. She felt in her heart that 
she would die from the horrible shock she had received; 
she also felt in her heart that her daughter obviously 
should be enough of a lady to do the same thing. And 
obviously, Mahala was not that kind of lady; some days 
her mother doubted if she were a lady at all. 

With the elasticity of youth, Mahala accepted her 
troubles, faced front, and began striking with all her 
might in self-defence. She had done what she could to 
make Jemima’s house as attractive as possible. What they 
w T ere going to live upon she had not discussed with her 
mother. She wondered, sometimes, what her mother 
thought. She decided at last that she must feel that there 
was some income from some property which would furnish 
them food, and, in the future, the clothing that would be 
required when the present supply was exhausted. Mrs. 
Spellman knew nothing of the glittering sign in the small 
front dooryard, flanked on one side by lilacs and on the 
other by snowballs, its feet firmly set in the midst of a 
great bed of flowing striped grass, its outlines softened by 
an overhanging mist of asparagus. She did not pay 
enough attention to know that every minute of spare time 


3 oo 


THE WHITE FLAG 


in the kitchen, Jemima was ripping up old hats and dresses, 
pressing material, steaming velvet, putting a fresh edge 
upon artificial leaves and flowers, and that in the living 
room Mahala, from early morning till far in the night, was 
bending over frames and patterns, and with her deft 
fingers putting a touch upon the dresses and the millinery 
of the few people who came to them that set a distinctive 
mark destined to arouse envy in other hearts. 

Mahala felt that eventually Ashwater would make its 
path to her door. She was already talking with Jemima 
of the time when they would freshly paper the walls and 
paint the house, and forecasting a time when there would 
be a bigger and a better house. 

Every time Jason, hurt and anxious eyed, delivered a 
basket of groceries at the back door, he used the opportun¬ 
ity to offer to Jemima to hang pictures or curtains, or 
do any heavy work entailed by moving. One day, in 
Jemima’s absence, Mahala unpacked a basket Jason had 
brought and she found in it several things that she had not 
ordered. These she returned to the basket. 

She said quietly to Jason : You have made a mistake. 

I didn’t order those things.” 

Jason answered with hardihood: “No, but those things 
go into the baskets of all of our customers these days. 
They are samples that are sent to us by factories. They’re 
new kinds of food that Peter Potter wants all of his custom¬ 
ers to try.” 

In the face of this Mahala thanked Jason and kept the 
samples that he had brought. She may have had a doubt 


THOSE WHO SERVE 


301 

that every grocery basket in Ashwater contained the lavish 
number of samples that came in hers, but she realized that 
Jason and Peter were two persons out of the whole town 
who were trying to be generous, to be kind, to conceal 
their heartfelt pity for the thing that had happened to her 
and to her mother. 

With the empty basket in his hand, Jason stood watch¬ 
ing Mahala. He was trying to think of some excuse for 
remaining. To him she shone like a star in her dark, ugly 
environment. The boy who never had known a real 
home or mother love, worshipped her as he would have 
worshipped an angel. But in the close contact that he 
had reached with her in the days of her adversity, he had 
learned that her needs were strictly human. He could 
not help seeing that even her closest friends of a short 
time previous were beginning quietly but definitely to 
desert her. Through the assistance he had been able to 
give her in moving and settling, he could not keep from 
observing that none of Mrs. Spellman’s former friends and 
none of Mahala’s were on the spot to offer either sympathy 
or help. In his heart the old bitterness and the rebellion 
against the power of the banker surged up to white heat. 
Here was another manifestation of what riches could do. 

He had watched every day to learn whether Junior was 
still Mahala’s friend, and he had decided that Junior had 
deserted her when he discovered that she was not the 
creature of wealth and influence that she always had been. 
His heart almost broken for her, he impulsively started 
toward her. 


302 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“Mahala,” he cried, “I wish-” 

Mahala turned toward him. The detailed picture of her 
beauty struck him forcibly. He remembered the culture 
of her home life, her careful rearing, her mental and phys¬ 
ical fineness. 

She was smiling on him quietly as she said, in a subdued 
voice: “You wish what, Jason?” 

Realizing the immeasurable distance between them, he 
found himself unable to say what it was that he wished, so 
he temporized: “I wish,” he said, “that everything in this 
world was different.” 

Mahala knew that he, too, had been stripped of even 
the little that he had; that he had lost his mother. She 
wholly misunderstood. 

She asked sympathetically: “Do you never hear any¬ 
thing concerning your mother, Jason?” and this, more 
than anything else, brought him to quick realization of 
the distance between them. 

Slowly he shook his head. 

At last he said: She never in all her life acted toward 
me as I have seen other mothers act toward their boys, and 
since she went away and left me without a word as she did, 
I am beginning to believe that she was not my real mother.” 

When his own ears heard this shameful admission from 
his lips, he was overwhelmed. He wheeled and hurried 
from the house precipitately. Mahala followed a step or 
two to the door and stood looking after him thoughtfully. 
Then she heard her mother calling and hurried to attend 
to her wants. 



CHAPTER XIII 


Only Three Words 

THE weeks went by and Mahala settled down to 

/J4 real work, she found that she had not boasted in 
JL m. vain. She was capable of doing as much work in 
a day as any other woman. She was capable of doing 
tasteful work, becoming to her customers to such a degree, 
that no one else in the towm ever had even approached. 
With Jemima’s help she was slowly beginning the founda¬ 
tion of a sum of savings that meant for them a better home 
in the future; and then one day she was called to the office 
of Albert Rich and told that in the settlement of her 
father’s estate he had found a small, abandoned farm, 
with a ramshackle house standing upon it, wholly unen¬ 
cumbered. He had kept this find a secret until Martin 
Moreland had filed his last claim and taken over property 
sufficient to discharge all indebtedness, at a very low ap¬ 
praisement. 

Mahala hurried back to Jemima and to her mother with 
the glad news that they really had a small inheritance. 

The following Sunday, her mother feeling unusually 
well and being able to sit propped in her bed for an hour, 
Mahala took the lunch Jemima had prepared for her and 
started to the country on foot to see if she could find the 

3°3 


304 


THE WHITE FLAG 


property from the descriptions given her by Albert Rich. 
She wanted to see whether, by any possibility, the house 
could be utilized for a home, or whether it could be sold for 
enough to buy a small town house for them. She felt that 
if she owned a roof, the question of clothing and food 
would be easy. Those were the days when more goods 
could be bought for less money than ever before in the 
history of the world. They were the days when the coun¬ 
try was cleared and developed to such a degree that 
gardens, orchards, vineyards, and farm lands were pouring 
out a wealth of fruitfulness. They w T ere the days before 
the forests had been cut and land had been cleared to 
such a degree that the heat and drought that attacked a 
following generation were unknown. Factories all over 
the country were turning out lavish quantities of a high 
grade of goods. People were rapidly advancing to a 
degree of luxury and comfort that the country had never 
known. 

With the furnishings from their former home, with the 
amount of fresh food that could be secured in the days 
when milk was four cents a quart, cream six, and a sub¬ 
stantial pair of shoes could be had for a dollar and a half, 
while the finest silk and satin dress material might be pur¬ 
chased for from seventy-five cents to a dollar and a half a 
yard, if she but owned a roof, the remainder of her problem 
would be easy. 

She had learned to her surprise that she liked to work; 
that she took pride in ripping up the old hats that were 
brought to her and making of them something so fresh, so 


ONLY THREE WORDS 


305 

dainty, constructed so becomingly to the face and figure 
of the wearer, that it was joy to do the w^ork. She was 
learning that lesson which all the world was later to learn 
—that the greatest happiness that was possible to be ex¬ 
perienced by any mortal came through the performance of 
work which was loved and which was beneficial to one’s 
fellow man. 

She had been careful from the start not to overwork. 
When she had sat for a certain length of time with her 
needle, she laid it down, squared her shoulders, and went 
for a few minutes to walk over the grasses of the front 
yard, through the garden where Jemima worked when she 
had no other employment. 

This morning she went down the road, her head erect, 
her nostrils distended, hearing the bird songs above her, 
sensing the waves of sound sweeping through the air 
around her, absorbing with her eyes and her ears the 
rhythms of life that flowed in streams as she passed. She 
was trying to gauge the quality and the value of the land 
through which she had been accustomed to driving all her 
life in her father’s surrey. 

She was following what was known as the River Road. 
She paused on the bridge, looking up and down the length 
of the Ashwater, her heart and soul alive to the beauty 
of the lazily flowing water, the great sycamores, the big 
maples and elms which bordered it, to the gold shoots of 
the willows with their long, graceful leaves and the red 
of the cornels. She smiled down at the big, delicate pink 
mallows blushing at the beauty of their own reflections in 


THE WHITE FLAG 


306 

the clear water. Her heart was weighted with grief over 
the loss of her father, with pity and regret for her mother. 
It was filled with anger against Martin Moreland and 
Junior. 

She conceded her father’s weakness in having gone on 
keeping up a business he could not afford and allowing 
himself to become so heavily involved. At the same time, 
she was certain that Martin Moreland had deceived him, 
had deliberately enmeshed him, had not mentioned notes 
that were overdue, had conducted business in a loose and 
unbusiness-like manner for the express purpose of ac¬ 
complishing the downfall of a man whose popularity and 
place in the community had always been an offence to 
him. 

That morning she tried to put these things out of her 
mind. She tried to think that in some way, whatever 
happened to her might work out for the best. She tried 
deliberately to fill her mind with the ripple of water, with 
the flush of the mallow, with the lark song over the adja¬ 
cent clover fields. 

When, finally, she aroused herself and went forward 
hunting for the inheritance that was vastly welcome no 
matter how small, she was almost shocked with the reali¬ 
zation for the first time that ultimately peace would re¬ 
turn to her heart; never would she relinquish her old pride 
in blood and breeding. Her father had been foolish, but 
he had not been wicked. He had misplaced his confidence. 
He had lost his money; but he had not involved other men. 
His name was clear. He might be blamed with the tongue 


ONLY THREE WORDS 


307 

of envy or of jealousy, but he never could be defamed with 
the tongue of slander. 

As she chose her path beside the dusty highway, lifting 
her skirts and taking care of her shoes as best she might, 
she found that she was fervently thanking God for these 
things, briends who did not stand by in such a case were 
not friends. She would forget them and gradually life 
would bring to her friends that were worth while. 

When finally she reached the place that she had set 
out to find, she realized why her father never had men¬ 
tioned it. He had not considered it worth mentioning. 
It probably had come into his hands with some other deal 
and had remained there because he was unable to dispose 
of it. 

Mahala did not know how to measure land by sight. 
She did not know where the forty acres surrounding the 
house began or ended. The house itself stood close to the 
road. It was so old that the roof was falling in. The 
front door stood slightly ajar. Surveying the place from 
the road, Mahala slowly shook her head. No one had 
lived there for years. The rank grass falling over the 
board laid from the gate to the stoop for a walk, proved 
it. The tangle of flowers and weeds growing across the 
front of the house and on either hand, proved it. The 
myriad sprouts springing up around the cherry and pear 
trees surrounding the house bespoke years of negligence. 

Mahala tested the broad front stoop and the veranda 
carefully before she bore her full weight upon them. She 
pushed open the front door and used the same care with 


THE WHITE FLAG 


308 

the floors. There were places where she trembled les c 
she should break through. In many spots the plastering 
had fallen and the bare laths grinned at her. Wind-blown 
limbs had broken in the windows and pieces of brick 
and stone testified that wanton children had deliberately 
smashed the glass in many places. 

She looked at the littered hearth of flagging and won¬ 
dered who had warmed their hearts before the fireplace. 
She counted the rooms and was dejected over their 
smallness—a living room, two bedrooms, a dining room, 
a lean-to kitchen, no upstairs, the roof and floors useless. 
The framework seemed sound. The chimney stood 
straight. 

She walked around the house and found at the back a 
neglected old orchard of apple and other fruit trees and a 
stable slowly inclining southward with the burden of years 
and its own dejection. On a trip around the outside of 
the house, she found a wild sweet briar clambering up 
and covering one whole end, and looking closer she could 
see the siding boards that had outlined the dimensions of 
three-foot flower beds surrounding the building. Peering 
among the dry leaves and weeds, she saw that earlier in 
the season tulips, hyacinths, and star flowers had bloomed 
there. There were seed pods ripening on the spindling 
peonies and purple and white phlox were in bloom. 

Instinctively, Mahala dropped to her knees and began 
to pull the weeds from among the flowers. Suddenly she 
sat back on her heels and looking up at the old building 
she smiled to it. Then she said to it: “So you were once 



ONLY THREE WORDS 


309 


a home. Some one loved living in you. Some one grew a 
wreath of flowers around you to make you pretty. Never 
you mind, you’re my home now and as soon as I earn some 
money I’ll come here to live—that’s a promise—and I’ll 
make you blooming and beautiful again.” 

When Mahala heard her own voice saying these words, 
she realized the pull on her heart of possession. This was 
a wretchedly poor thing, but it was her own, her all. 
Every weed seemed to point an accusing finger at her. 
The old apple trees reached pitiful arms, begging to be 
denuded of suckers, to have their feet freed of encumbering 
growth, for their soil to be fertilized. The old house 
needed a new roof, floors, and plaster, lhe greater its 
needs, the stronger the appeal it made to Mahala in the 
day of her own need. Here was something to fight for. 
Here was something tangible to love and to live for, for 
after all, soil is soil, and forty acres of it is not to be dis¬ 
carded because of neglect, when it lies in a fertile valley 
near a river. 

Finally Mahala arose. She returned to the back of 
the house and managed to raise some water at the old 
pump. She washed her hands, and then going back to the 
front, she sat down on the stoop, lightly screened by sun- 
flecked shadows, and spread beside her the lunch Jemima 
had prepared. She sat and ate her food very slowly, be¬ 
cause her ears were busy with the birds, her eyes were on 
the sky, among the bushes outlining the indolent old 
fence sliding down of sheer inanition. She noticed a dis¬ 
tant figure trudging down the road, a figure that moved 




3 IG 


THE WHITE FLAG 


toward her with a tired step actuated by unwavering pur¬ 
pose, a figure that one could recognize as far as it could be 
seen as the plodding form of a human following a hard 
road under the lash of duty. Mahala’s perceptions were 
quickened in this case by the fact that the oncoming figure 
was accentuated by a shimmering gleam of snowy white 
bobbing in the rear. She looked intently, and then slowly 
one hand reached out beside her and began dividing in 
halves the lunch that she had brought. 

As Rebecca approached the gate, Mahala could see that 
she was covered with dust, that she looked more worn and 
tired than she ever had seen her. Whatever the thing 
might have been that inspired Rebecca’s endless search, 
it had this time led her to far counties over rough roads. 
There were times when she had been reported as having 
been seen beyond the confines of the state. 

Mahala, with the help of her foot, pushed wide the sag¬ 
ging gate, and with the best smile she could summon, held 
her hand to Rebecca. The lonely pilgrim on the long road 
paused and looked at her intently. She strode toward 
her and began her customary speech: “Behold the 
White Flag.” Mahala listened respectfully, the smile 
fading from her face. In her heart there was a passion of 
painful emotion. There were reasons as to why she folded 
her hands tightly over her aching heart and passed under 
the flag in a spirit of deep reverence. 

Then she pointed to the food on the stoop and asked 
Rebecca to come in, to sit down and rest, to share with her. 
Rebecca asked for water. They went back to the old well 


ONLY THREE WORDS 


3ii 

where the traveller manipulated the pump handle and 
Mahala, holding her cupped hands tightly together, caught 
the water and Rebecca drank from them. When she 
had quenched her thirst, Rebecca's hands—slender, deli¬ 
cate hands—closed together over Mahala's. Suddenly 
she bent her head and kissed the wet fingers she was 
holding. 

‘“Cold water in His name,’" she murmured. 

Mahala was deeply moved. She took one of Rebecca's 
hands and started toward the front of the house. She 
noticed that Rebecca's footsteps lagged, her eyes were 
searching everywhere. She withdrew her hand, and going 
to the back door, pushed it open and peered inside. 

After the words were spoken, Mahala was almost terri¬ 
fied to realize that she had asked: “Becky, what is it that 
you spend your life hunting?” 

Instantly, Rebecca's figure grew rigid. Her face 
became a grayish white. The dark lights that Mahala 
feared gathered in her eyes; her lips began to tremble and 
her hands to shake. Terrified, Mahala again laid her 
hand on Rebecca’s arm. 

“Come,” she said soothingly, “come, and eat your food 
and then I'll help you. We'll search together.” 

Rebecca stood still. Now she was looking intently 
at Mahala. Then she leaned her head and whispered: 
“No one ever offered to help me before. It's a secret. 
It’s a dreadful secret. Terrible things will happen if I 
tell. My soul will be eternally damned.” 

Mahala returned Rebecca’s steady look with eyes of 


312 THE WHITE FLAG 

frank honesty, “ I wouldn’t tell your secret, Becky,” she 
said. 

“You will swear it?” cried Rebecca. 

“I will swear it,” repeated Mahala. 

Rebecca brought her lips close to Mahala's ear and 
whispered three words. Mahala drew back, staring at her 
with pitiful eyes. 

“Oh, Becky!” she cried, “is that what you search for? 
I will help you! Truly I will! Come, now, and have some¬ 
thing to eat. You’re so tired.” 

They went back to the front stoop together. Because 
Mahala untied and slipped it back with gentle hands, 
Rebecca spared her bonnet, and for the first time, Mahala 
had the chance really to study her features, her hair, the 
set of her head upon the column of her throat, and the 
figure concealed by the unbecoming dress. She could see 
that in her youth Rebecca must have been a beautiful 
girl. Under the grime of travel and the nerve strain of 
fatigue, she was still beautiful. 

Mahala made a pretence of eating after that. Sur¬ 
reptitiously, she pushed all of the food she had under 
Rebecca’s fingers. When they had finished, Mahala dis¬ 
covered that Rebecca was studying her intently. Then 
she looked over the neglected dooryard, at the old house, 
and back to Mahala. 

“Little angel lady,” she said, “you are kind to me in 
Ashwater. Why are you here?” 

A sudden tremor quivered across Mahala’s face. 

“Becky, dear,” she said, “this is my home now. It’s 


ONLY THREE WORDS 


:H3 

the only place to live, that I have left. You know that 
my father went to Heaven and I lost my beautiful home, 
so now this is the only home I have. I’m coming here to 
live, to see if I can cure my mother’s broken heart.” 

Rebecca listened, her face full of intelligence. 

Suddenly she leaned again and in a low voice she whis¬ 
pered: “Who broke your mother’s heart?” 

Mahala, to ease her own fear and because she credited 
Rebecca with little more mentality than a child, answered 
truly: “Martin Moreland broke her heart, Becky; broke 
it recklessly and deliberately; broke it with malice and 
through long-pursued purpose.” 

At the mention of that name, Rebecca stiffened. A 
look of deep concentration came into her eyes. Again she 
seemed on the verge of going into a violent attack. Her 
brow began to cloud, to draw down in threatening dark¬ 
ness. 

She muttered ominously: “Martin Moreland, Martin 
Moreland, breaker of women’s hearts, and the hearts that 
he breaks never can be mended!” 

Afraid of her in violent moments, Mahala began patting 
her arm. In an effort to try to distract her attention, she 
begged her to listen to a bird of black and gold singing on 
a knotty old cherry tree, to watch big butterflies hovering 
over white phlox, to see the little growing things being 
choked by weeds. 

After they had finished their lunch and rested for a long 
time, they started back toward Ashwater. They made a 
notable pair, Rebecca with her round, childish face, the 


3H THE WHITE FLAG 

white flag waving with her every step; Mahala, thinned and 
whitened with suffering and hard work, her arms filled 
with white and purple phlox. Beside the road, whenever 
they passed Canadian anemones, cone flowers, or any 
beautiful wilding, Mahala paused to gather a few; and 
when they reached the cemetery, she divided her fragrant 
burden in halves, and going in, she knelt beside her father’s 
grave and scattered one portion over it, and burving her 
face above the spot where she imagined Mahlon Spellman’s 
heart was resting, she sobbed as if her own would break, 
i After a long time, Rebecca’s hand lifted her; she stood 
up and their eyes met. Rebecca’s were clear and bright. 
She smiled at Mahala and then she said a strange thing: 
“Oh, the blessing, the beautiful blessing of tears! Mine 
all dried up long ago when I was young and pretty like you. 
But when you say your prayers to-night, remember to 
thank God for the surcease of tears.” 

Mahala stood very still. She resolved that when she 
went home, for the first time she would probe Jemima’s 
memory to the depths. These were the thoughts and the 
words of a cultured woman. She remembered at that 
minute that she never had heard any one say who Rebecca 
Sampson was, or where she came from, or why she had no 
relatives. For herself she decided in that minute that there 
were two things that she knew. Rebecca had been a eirl 

_ # o 

of radiant beauty, she had been cultured and was accus- 
tomed to proper forms of speech and carefully selected, 
meaningful words, and it seemed to Mahala, as they 
went down the road together, that from things she could 


ONLY THREE WORDS 


3i5 

recall, sharply accentuated by what she had been told 
occurred after her passing into the church the night of 
Commencement, that she might be able to point a finger 
very straightly toward the source that had wrecked the 
life of so fair a woman as Rebecca Sampson. 

When Mahala reached home she was hungry and tired. 
With inborn fastidiousness she bathed and changed her 
clothing. She sat beside her mother’s bed and told her of 
the day. She tried to paint the desperate old house and 
stable as they were, but she found herself saying that the 
beams and the partitions were of substantial wood, that 
the foundations were solid. When she came to the or¬ 
chard, she realized that she was talking more of the blue¬ 
birds that twittered through the branches than she was 
of the cavities in which they were nesting. She was more 
concerned with the hair-like grass carpeting its floor than 
she was with the borers burrowing in its branches. She 
realized, too, that she was talking more of the many 
kinds of dear home flowers that marched in procession, 
hugging closely to the old house, than she was of the 
building itself. She deliberately embedded in her mother’s 
brain the thought that here was a refuge, that here was 
a home that might be made into a sanctuary for them; 
that she might end her days among the bluebirds in 
the shelter of the pink boughs of the old orchard. For 
the first time since disaster had laid violent hands upon 
her, Elizabeth Spellman remembered that she was not an 
old woman. She was scarcely middle aged. She had 
been much younger than the husband upon whom she 


THE WHITE FLAG 


316 

had leaned so confidently. The thought that there was 
something in the world that was really theirs, to which 
they had a right, was the first heartening thing that had 
happened. The hope that she might once again preside in 
a home of her own, provided by Mahlon, beautified by 
even a few of her former possessions, was such a tonic as 
nothing else in the world could have been short of resurrec¬ 
tion and complete repossession. 

' When at last she had composed herself for sleep, Mahala 
slipped from her mother’s room and going to her own, 
threw herself upon her bed, and without knowing exactly 
why, for the second time that day, she indulged in the 
luxury of unrestrained tears, tears that made her realize 
that Rebecca’s words had been true. Tears were a bless¬ 
ing; they were a relief; they did wash the ache from the 
heart, ease brain strain, and encourage the soul. They 
were a soothing balm devised by a Great Healer for the 
comfort of earth’s creatures. 

Exhausted, she arose and began undressing, when she 
heard some one knocking at the side door. She remem¬ 
bered that Jemima had gone to attend the evening church 
services and probably was late visiting with some of her 
friends. She tried to think who it might be that was 
knocking at her door at that hour. The thought came to 
her that possibly some of the friends who had deserted her 
in her extremity might have regretted it. Maybe Edith 
Williams had remembered her and slipped to the side door 
to avoid disturbing the invalid. Maybe Susanna had 
come to extend to her a few words of love and loyalty. 


ONLY THREE WORDS 


3i7 


The knock grew louder, and thinking of her mother, she 
dried her eyes, whisked a powdery bit of chamois skin 
across them, ran a comb through the waves of her hair, and 
hastening to the door, she opened it to be confronted by 
Junior Moreland. 

When she saw who it was, Mahala planted her figure 
stiffly in front of the doorway. Emphatically she shook 
her head. She said tartly and with stiff lips: “No More¬ 
land is welcome in this house,” and started to close the 
door. 

Junior caught it, pushed it open and stepping inside, 
leaned against it. He had dressed himself with unusual 
care. Looking at him with searching eyes of wonder, 
Mahala saw that never in her life had he appeared to 
her so unusually handsome, so attractive. But when he 
opened his lips, he said to her sneeringly: “Had enough 
yet?” 

She stepped back, looking at him in amazement, and 
then she said deliberately: “You Morelands tortured my 
father, for how many years I do not know, and then mur¬ 
dered him deliberately. You are now engaged in the proc¬ 
ess of killing my mother by slow degrees. For all I know 
you may be able to do the same thing to me,but you sha n t 
do it under the pretence of loving me. If you have de¬ 
termined to do it, if you are strong enough to do it, every 
one shall know that it is cold blooded.” 

This made Junior furious, but he did try to control him¬ 
self. He said to her in a voice meant to be conciliatory: 
“Your father was naturally a bookworm. He never 


THE WHITE FLAG 


3i8 

should have tried to run a business. Every one who knew 
him knows that he had no business ability whatever.” 

To his surprise Mahala nodded in acquiescence. She 
said slowly: “I think you are quite right, else your father 
would not have been able to complicate his business mat¬ 
ters as he did. But my father was not the only man to 
suffer, since the name of Martin Moreland stands for more 
distress in Ashwater, and throughout the county, than 
the names of all of the remainder of the wicked men put 
together.” 

Before she knew what was coming, Junior had seized her 
in his arms. He gathered her to him roughly, repeatedly 
kissing her, her hair, her shoulders, the hands she thrust 
out to push him from her. Finally she broke from his 
hold. She stood before him, looking at him in scorn. 

“I wish you could realize,” she said at last, “that your 
touch is hateful. I feel positively soiled.” 

Then Junior lost his self-control. He said to her: “If 
you won’t marry me, I’ll teach you what it means to be 
soiled in reality. I’ll put you where the dogs won’t bark 
at you when you pass.” 

Terrified at his strength and so dire a threat, Mahala 
stepped back and pushed a chair between them. Under 
cover of this, she lightly ran through the house, opened 
the front door, and stepped upon the walk where she was 
in full view of the street, so that Junior was forced to leave 
the house. 

He came near her in passing and said: “Aren’t you 
afraid to refuse me?” 


ONLY THREE WORDS 


3i9 


Mahala studied him intently for several seconds and 
then she said deliberately: “What you threatened is con¬ 
sistent with Moreland character. As I understand it, I 
realize that, if it is in your power, you will break me, even 
as your father broke the heart and the brain of Becky 
Sampson when she was young and helpless.” 

At that Junior became furious. He advanced upon 
Mahala threateningly, his fists doubled, his eyes blazing. 
“I won’t take that even from you,” he cried. “\ou liet 
My father never knew Becky Sampson!” 

Goaded beyond endurance, Mahala laughed at him. 

“I dare you to ask Becky!” she cried. 

Forgetting everything else in his rage, Junior once more 
hurried to his old refuge. He told his father what had oc¬ 
curred. The elder Moreland scorned the accusation. 

He said to Junior: “I hope that at last you are thor¬ 
oughly cured, that hereafter you’ll devote your time to 
the winning of a girl v/orth while. Why spena any more 
time hanging around an evil-tempered little pauper? 

Junior thought this over; then he agreed; but as he 
turned from the room he said to his father: Pauper? Yes. 
But the prettiest girl God ever made, and the prettiest 
pauper Martin Moreland ever made!” 

Martin Moreland was pleased. He rubbed his hands 
together and laughed in high glee. Junior stood a few 
minutes thinking deeply. Then he disappeared. 

The next morning Junior asked his father for the use of 
their best carnage for the day and upon its being granted, 
he took it and disappeared. In the middle of the after- 


320 


THE WHITE FLAG 


noon he presented himself at the Moreland front door 
having Edith Williams in his arms, and to his astonished 
mother he introduced her as his wife. She had consented 
to go to Bluff port with him and to marry him while her aunt 
thought that she had gone into the country for a drive. 

Exactly what had been in the heart of Edith Williams, 
ivho had adored Junior from childhood, when he suddenly 
appeared in her home and asked her to marry him, no one 
ever knew. The nerve strain had been so great that Edith 
was in a state of collapse when Junior brought her into 
his home. Mrs. Moreland immediately sent for Doctor 
Grayson and for her husband. 

When Martin Moreland reached home and was made to 
understand what had happened, he was delighted. He did 
not share his wife’s terror that Edith might die on their 
hands. He laughed when she suggested the possibility 
and shocked her soul into a fuller realization than it ever 
before had known concerning the inner workings of his 
mind when he said scornfully: “Whatever she does, the 
marriage is perfectly legal. He is now her husband, her 
only heir. Let her die if she wants to!” 

While his wife was judging him with the severest judg¬ 
ment she had ever measured out to him, she came to an 
abrupt stop as she observed that he was lavishing every 
attention upon Edith. He was doing everything in his 
power to quiet her, to humour her, to ingratiate himself. 
Then Mrs. Moreland thought that possibly he had been 
unfortunate in expressing himself. He really did have 
a tender heart.; he really was delighted to have Junior 


ONLY THREE WORDS 


321 


safely married to a girl they knew. She immediately set 
herself to follow her husband’s example. She began doing 
things to humour and conciliate Edith, while Edith proved 
herself to have been wholly spoiled. 

She hated the dark, forbidding house. The home in 
which she always had lived had been filled with light and 
sunshine and beautiful things of attractive colouring. She 
thoroughly disliked the sombre Mrs. Moreland with her 
sad face, her deep-set eyes, her sallow complexion. Be¬ 
yond words, she hated Mr. Moreland. She could not en¬ 
dure his touch. The only thing in her surroundings she 
did not dislike was Junior. She had no hesitation about 
finding fault and complaining. Nothing pleased her; 
nothing was right; but she had no complaint to make 
concerning Junior. Both his father and his mother real¬ 
ized that to the furthest extent of her nature she was in 
love with Junior. She insisted that he should carry her 
to his room in his arms, and this he did. He helped his 
mother to put her to bed; he waited upon her like a ser¬ 
vant. Junior, who never had performed for himself even 
the slightest service he could avoid, dumbfounded his 
parents by accepting the role Edith laid down for him. 
Instantly, he did exactly what she asked until his father 
remonstrated. 

His face bore a look of shock and then of gratification 
when Junior said to him: “Can’t you see that I’ve got to? 
She hates this house. She hates you and Mother. She’s 
worth all that stack of money her father left. If I don’t 
keep her in a good humour with me, she s got just three 


322 


THE WHITE FLAG 


blocks to walk to go back to her uncle. Until I get her 
money in my hands, haven’t I got to keep her pleased with 
me?” 

This was the point at which the elder Moreland smiled 
—a sardonic smile, a smile that set upon his face the most 
agreeable look of which it was capable. He nodded in 
confirmation. He rubbed his slender hands in high glee. 
He told Junior that he was exactly right, to spare neither 
money nor pains to pamper and to please Edith. He set 
about spending money upon her himself. He brought 
her more expensive gifts than either her father or her uncle 
ever had given her. Very shortly after the marriage, he 
carried to her a book of plans. He told her to look over 
them at her leisure and select the kind of house that she 
would enjoy living in. He suggested that Junior take 
her in the carriage, drive slowly over the town and the 
immediate surroundings, and let her choose any location 
she pleased upon which she would like to live. 

This diverted Edith’s attention from herself. She de¬ 
lighted in taking these drives with Junior. She studied 
the residential locations of Ashwater with careful scrutiny, 
also attractive locations in the outskirts. Since the 
elder Moreland was complacent, since he had promised 
her a home for her wedding gift from him, she meant to 
see to it that she had such a home as would completely 
overshadow any other residence in the county. She was 
looking for an eminence, some place to set a house care¬ 
fully planned and built, from which she could look down 
upon the remainder of the town. She meant to show 


ONLY THREE WORDS 3^3 

every one that she had the finest, the most attractively 
furnished and located home among them. She was never 
so happy as when she rode beside Junior, or walked with 
him upon the streets, and when it was possible, before 
the eyes of even the most lowly, her face flamed with 
gratified pride if she could drop a handkerchief or a pair 
of gloves and let people see Junior snatch them up and 
return them to her. Her vanity was fed by his solicitude 
in public. She pretended to be more helpless than she was 
because she adored having the strong, handsome young 
man wait upon her. Up and down the length of Ashwater, 
she metaphorically trailed Junior at her chariot wheels. 

Junior kept his body straight, his head high, and with a 
prideful flourish, introduced Edith as his wife everywhere 
that she was not known. There were two things of 
which he could be reasonably proud. The one was the 
amount of her fortune wtr :h she began transferring to his 
hands as speedily as she could get it into her possession, 
while the other was her appearance. She was still the 
frail, delicate girl she always had been, but having hypno¬ 
tized herself into the belief that Junior had been over¬ 
powered by her beauty Commencement night, that he 
had truly been so attracted by her that he had forgotten 
Mahala, when he had asked Edith to become his wife, 
she had blossomed into the wide-open rose of love. She 
was a handsome woman whom any man might have been 
proud to be seen with, while Junior was a man to whom 
anything that he possessed multiplied immensely in value, 
merely because it was his possession. 


CHAPTER XIV 

1 he Cloud That Grew 


I N THE room over Peter Potter’s grocery, Jason, every 
day growing taller, stronger, and developing in men- 
tality, planned for spare time that he might spend at 
his books and in taking care of the things that he and 
Peter had salvaged for Mahala without her knowledge. 
As he had advanced in his work in the grocery, and his 
benefit to Peter in his business had become pronounced, 
Peter had generously recompensed him. In the new build¬ 
ing, the front room over the grocery had been designed 
for Jason s needs. He now had a hving room and a small 
separate bedroom. He had good lights, a table at which 
to work, a carpet upon his floor. This room was a private 
place, a personal possession of his. With the exception 
of Peter Potter and his wife, no one ever had entered it. 
Jason had no intention that any one should. There were 
many things in it which most of the people in Ashwater 
would have recognized. 

Here Jason found his refuge; this was his place for medi¬ 
tation, for rest, for study. In the grocery below he worked 
indefatigably. Every few days fresh signs of the most 
attractive nature appeared in the windows. These signs, 
surrounded by attractively displayed goods, had been the 



THE CLOUD THAT GREW 


325 


means of reinstating Peter Potter. Two other clerks 
were busy behind his counters. Jason had drilled them 
according to his own ideas. They were not only efficient, 
but they were also honest. Peter found himself doing 
more business than both the other groceries of the town. 
When he reached this point he made Jason a partner in 
truth. Aside from a sufficient salary, he recompensed his 
good work with a third of the profits of the business. He 
realized that either of the other firms in town would be de¬ 
lighted to add Jason’s ability, his untiring labour, and 
his personal magnetism to its stock in trade. He knew 
that he could keep Jason only by making it well worth his 
while to remain with him. 

One day he said admiringly to Jason: “They tell me that 
young Junior Moreland is pretty keen on a deal, but I’ll 
wager that he can’t beat you.” 

Jason laughed as he replied: “Junior will cut circles 
around me when it comes to accumulating money because 
I am forced to be honest and he is forced to be crooked.’' 

Peter had a way of opening his mouth wide, and then 
setting the thumb and forefinger of his right hand immedi¬ 
ately under his nose, he outlined the orifice. Slowly he 
indulged in this familiar practice. Finally, when his lips 
came together, he was looking at Jason, his head tilted 
to intensify his vision, speculation rampant in his eyes. 

“Jason,” he asked suddenly, “who taught you to be 
honest?” 

Jason considered his reply and then he said: “Outside of 
your grocery and what I learned at school, I can t remem- 


326 THE WHITE FLAG 

her that any one ever taught me anything. Marcia never 
did, and when she let Martin Moreland beat me when I 
oid not deserve beating, I began to feel that she was not 
even my mother.” 

Once again Peter outlined a circle back of which his 
tongue worked, and then he asked another leading ques¬ 
tion. “By what right did Martin Moreland come to 
your house and beat you?” 

Jason’s laugh was bitter, while his reply was: “By the 
right of riches; by superior strength, with the consent of 
the woman with whom I lived.” 

Peter thought this over. 

“Ive known a few men in my time,” he said, “who were 

just naturally cruel; but Martin Moreland is just naturallv 
a devil.” 

Jason assented, and then he asked his leading question 
of Peter. 

“I’ve been told ” he said, “that Becky Sampson goes 
into George Sand’s grocery, picks up whatever suits her 
fancy, and walks away, and that Martin Moreland foots 
her bills. Do you know whether that’s the truth?” 

“Come here a minute,” said Peter. 

Jason followed him to the back of the store. Out of 
a safe which was a part of the new building designed to do 
away with some of his trips to Bluffport, since Peter had 
no use for the village banker, he took one of the old led¬ 
gers he had brought back. He leafed over its pages until 
he came to one at the head of which was written, “Becky 
Sampson.” He showed Jason an account extending over 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 


327 


years. He pointed to the foot of each page where the ac¬ 
count was totalled and the total was carried over and 
added to the account of Martin Moreland. 

As Peter closed the ledger and returned it to the safety 
of the vault he said: “I lost a good deal of his business 
when my store got to its lowest point. I lost the rest of 
it when I took you in; but Tve made so much more with 
your help that I don’t care. Martin Moreland always put 
my back up like a mad cat’s whenever he came near me, 
anyway.” 

Jason went through his work the remainder of that day 
without giving much thought to what he was doing. In 
the back of his head he was thinking of the woman, who, 
from childhood, had been supposed to be his mother. 
While she never had treated him as he saw other women 
treating their children, she never had been aggressively 
unkind to him. He had been plainly fed on the simplest 
fare; he had been scantily clothed; but he was comfortable. 
He never had been forced to go to school with icy feet and 
a purple nose. He had always had a warm coat with 
mittens in his pocket. From earliest remembrance he 
had worked all day and in a manner that produced results. 
He realized that his deepest thanks were due to Marcia; 
that she had taught him to do this, and that, had he not 
known how to work efficiently and speedily when he was 
left alone, he would have been deserted indeed. If he 
had not been quick and neat and efficient, it would not 
have been in his soul to perform the near miracle that 
he had performed in the transformation of Peter’s grocery 


328 THE WHITE FLAG 

from the third in the town to the first. He would not have 
been able to draw patronage in spite of the things that 
repeatedly came to his ear that the powerful banker was 
doing secretly to prevent Peter’s business from flourishing. 

There were many things that Martin Moreland could do 
to any man he had in his power financially. The one place 
in which Peter Potter always had shown deep wisdom was 
in keeping out of Moreland’s hands financially. In his 
worst days, if he had a small surplus to bank, he had left 
the store in charge of Jason, climbed into his delivery 
wagon, and jogged to Bluffport. So long as he was not 
under financial obligations at the First National, so long 
as his store was fresh and shining, his windows filled with 
attractive signs encircled by attractive food in the way of 
corroboration, Martin Moreland had not been able either 
to say or to do anything that would injure him. 

Reviewing all these things, and studying them over, 
Jason was slowly beginning to arrive at conclusions. As 
he grew older and watched the ramifications of life unfold 
everywhere around him, he began to see and to understand 
and to place his own interpretation upon things that 
had happened to him ever since his childhood. Because 
Marcia had never been actively unkind to him, because 
life with her was the only life he had known up to the time 
that she had vanished in one black night of horror, Jason’s 
thoughts of her were not wholly unkind. As he studied 
the situation in Ashwater, as he realized what financial 
power like that of Martin Moreland meant in the hands 
of an unscrupulous man, he found himself thinking more 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 


329 


frequently, and even in a kindlier way, concerning Marcia. 
If Martin Moreland were a man sufficiently bright men¬ 
tally, sufficiently unscrupulous to encompass the downfall 
of one after another of the financial men of Ashwater and 
adjoining counties, it was not so very much of a marvel 
that he might also have in his power a woman who was 
standing alone. 

Jason began to wonder where Marcia was; what life was 
doing to her; whether she really was his mother, and if she 
was, whether she would be pleased to see him, to know 
that he was prospering, to know that very frequently he 
made the journey to Bluffport for Peter Potter, and that 
in the bank there stood an account to his credit from which 
nothing ever had been deducted except for his barest 
necessities—food, clothing, and books. With the stigma 
of his mother’s occupation removed from him, with the 

changed appearance through years of growth, sufficient 

% 

food, and not too strenuous work, Jason was slowly de¬ 
veloping into an attractive figure. Always he had kept 
in mind, that if he did make a noteworthy success of life, 
he must remember his books. He found that during the 
years when he had fixed his lessons in his mind, repeating 
formulas, tables, and equations at the same time he was 
selling tomatoes and raisins and tobacco, he had acquired 
what might be denominated the “habit” of study. He 
liked to study; he liked to carry a problem in his head, 
thrash it out to a certain point, and to experience the feel¬ 
ing of power he experienced when sudden interruptions 
diverted his mind, and yet, with the return of leisure, came 



330 


THE WHITE FLAG 


the ability to return to his problem, take it up where he 
had left off, and carry it to a successful conclusion. This 
argued well for the fact that he was able to attain for 
himself, by himself, a degree of culture that might possibly 
surpass that which others were acquiring in their school 
work. When Commencement was over and Mahala no 
longer entered the store to show him how far the classes 
had advanced, Jason had procured for himself higher books 
and gone on with what really were the beginnings of a 
college education. 

Somewhere, inherent in his nature, there was a love of 
the soil. He was particularly interested in the wagons of 
the farmers who stopped at the back door of the grocery 
with great loads of crisp cabbages, golden tomatoes, purple 
beets, silvery-skinned onions, long white radishes with blue 
tops, and turnips of the same colour, spreading into great, 
juicy circles of crisp tartness. He liked to slice the top 
from one of these, peel it, and stand biting into it like an 
apple, as he negotiated the purchase of the load and its 
transfer to the back of the grocery. Sometimes he went 
and stood beside the teams and slipped his slender fingers 
under the harness, easing it about the horses’ ears, straight¬ 
ening out the mane, talking to them as if they had'been 
people. The one thing upon which he had determined 
was that he would not remain much longer with Peter 
Potter, and the other thing about which he had not de¬ 
termined, but concerning which in his heart he admitted 
the lure, was land. He would like to grow such wagon¬ 
loads of fruits and vegetables as he constantly handled in 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 331 

Peter Potter's grocery. He would like to own a stable 
filled with cows and calves and sheep and horses. He 
would like to have around his feet once more a flock of 
chickens such as he had lost upon the night when he lost 
everything else on earth that belonged to him except his 
life and the clothing he wore. 

He understood what it meant when boys who had 
scorned and taunted him at school began dropping into 
the grocery and asking him to the backs of certain build¬ 
ings after working hours were over. Now that they knew 
he had money, they were willing to gamble with him. As 
he increased in stature and it became known that he really 
was a partner in Peter Potter’s business, there were boys, 
and girls as well, who began to be friendly and occasionally 
he was asked to a party or some social gathering; but not 
in one instance had Jason ever accepted any of these in¬ 
vitations. Firmly fixed in his mind were his days of priva¬ 
tion, the days when he would have been so delighted 
to be included at the merry makings devised for other 
children, the days when his heart and brain were hungry. 
Now that he was mentally occupied and physically satis¬ 
fied, he could not quite control the feeling of repulsion that 
crept up in his heart when he met with an advance on 
the part of any boy or girl who, once upon a time, had 
seared his brain and repulsed his body with the taunt: 
“Washerwoman’s son!” 

Jason knew, in the depths of his heart, that as the years 
passed, the same hunger for love, for companionship, for 
the diversions of the young around him, were even stronger 


332 THE WHITE FLAG 

than they had been as a child. He realized that there was 
something for which he was waiting, something that he 
wanted with an intensity that at times seared his body 
like a fever, but what it was that he wanted was not 
a thing that could be supplied by tardy kindness on the 
part of his former tormentors. 

for four years the bright spots in Jason’s life had been 
the few minutes each Friday evening of the school week 
when Mahala, usually armed with a list of groceries, had 
slipped into the store, come straight to him and put in 
his lingers the neat slip giving the pages of advance over 
the previous week; and sometimes there had been written 
out the start of a difficult equation, a hint that read: “You 
will find a catch in the fifteenth problem on the sixty- 
seventh page. You divide by nine and multiply by fifty- 
lour, and sometimes she had carried to him for a few 

weeks of his use, a volume of supplementary reading that 
helped him. 

With Commencement these things stopped. Almost 
immediately thereafter, Mahala’s troubles had begun, and 
then, to Jason’s bewilderment, there had speedily come the 
time when there were things that he could do for her, 
things that saved her work, that saved her money, that 
helped her to keep her head high and her face pridefully 
lifted and fronting the world that so soon had forgotten 
her. There was beginning in his heart a yeasty ferment, a 
boiling up of many things, a wondering and a questioning, 
and above everything else, each day more deeply rooted, 
the conviction that the same hand that had so much to 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 333 

do with his destiny was the hand that deliberately had 
brought ruin into the life of the girl who, alone of the whole 
town, had gone out of her way to show him compassion 
and human kindness. He was beginning to wonder what 
there was that he could do to free Mahala from this sinister 
power under which so many others had fallen. He was 
beginning to study, occasionally to ask questions, and in 
his heart there grew a slow wonder as to just what money 
was, how it had originated, and why it gave to any man 
the power to ride in a carriage, to mingle in the best so¬ 
ciety, to hold up his head in the churches, to control for 
years in the schools and the town council, in every enter¬ 
prise in which money or business welfare was concerned, 
and at the same time to be the unseen cause of financial 
wreck, of physical downfall for other men. 

Definitely Jason was beginning to settle in his own 
mind as to what such power also entailed in the lives of 
women. Sometimes, when his thoughts were skipping 
over the surface, or delving deep, he thought of Mrs. 
Moreland. He remembered her dark face, the pathetic 
lines around her mouth. He remembered the story of how 
she had come to the village upon a visit in the days when 
she was young and good looking and richly dressed. He 
had been told of the whirlwind courtship of Martin More¬ 
land and how she had married him, believing that he loved 
her, and how she had put her fortune into his hands and 
was now so dependent upon him that she might only spend 
of her own money by charging an account at the stores 
which would be paid by a check from the bank. Cer- 


334 THE WHITE FLAG 

tainly, she was not a happy woman. Certainly, she could 
not be, if she knew anything concerning the financial trans¬ 
actions in which her husband indulged. Because she re¬ 
mained the larger part of her time at home and busied her¬ 
self about her household affairs, it was generally conceded 
that she did not know many of the things that were known 
concerning her husband. 1 here was a tendency to speak 
of her in a whisper as “the poor thing.” 

Then one day Jason’s brain found a new subject for con¬ 
sideration. He had gone to the Bluffport bank, carrying 
an unusually heavy deposit for Peter Potter and himself. 
Standing at a small side desk, occupied with pen and blot¬ 
ter, going over his account, he caught an oblique glimpse 
of a woman entering the door, a woman in the very prime 
of life, having a frank face of alluring beauty. He no¬ 
ticed the attractive way in which her hair was dressed; he 
noticed the neatness, the dignity, the style of her clothing. 
1 he fact that she was bareheaded told him that she must 
be from one of the near-by stores. With the sure step 
of one accustomed by a long-formed habit, she took her 
place at the window of the paying teller and transacted 
her business. Jason slid around the corner of the desk, 
pulled his hat a bit lower over his face, and gripping 

the pen firmly, watched in almost stupefying bewilder¬ 
ment. 

It could not be possible; but it was possible. There 
was no mistaking the tones of the quick, incisive voice. It 
was the same voice that had told him, almost every day of 
his youth, that his only chance lay through books. It was 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 335 

the same frame now fashionably, even expensively, clothed, 
that had bent above the washtub in the dingy kitchen 
of his childhood. It was the same face, with the ac¬ 
companying miracle of elaborate and attractive hair dress¬ 
ing and a chamois skin dusted with pink powder. When 
Jason s lips met, he realized that they had been hanging 
open until they were dry. Above the marvel of seeing 
Marcia standing so confidently at the wicket of the bank, 
transacting a financial matter that appeared to be of con¬ 
siderable importance, came the marvel of the deference 
with which she was treated by the cashier. For her the 
wicket was swung open; for her there were polite greetings 
and a few words concerning the weather and outside 
matters, for her there was a laughing jest as she turned 
away and went swiftly as she had come. 

Jason laid down the pen and followed at a distance. 
One block down the street she crossed and went into an 
interesting building on the corner. From across the street, 
he looked at the front window, at the side, at the entrance, 
and read, in letters of white china placed upon the glass, 
“Millinery and Ladies’ Furnishings. Nancy Bodkin and 
Company.” 

Jason repeated it over and over—“'and Company.”’ 
Did that mean that Martin Moreland had given liberty to 
his slave, that she was no longer a creature of dingy 
kitchens and the subterfuge of washtubs in order that for a 
few night hours she might be the creature Jason once had 
seen in the rose-pink environment and the dress of snow? 
Was Marcia the woman who could carry such an alliance 


336 THE WHITE FLAG 

further, and at the same time look and move and speak 
as he had just seen her? 

Jason found himself entering the store behind him. It 
proved to be a drug store. He bought a glass of milk 
shake, and sitting down at the counter, he began a con¬ 
versation with the clerk as he drank. He started by re¬ 
marking upon the wonderful growth of Bluffport—how 
many new buildings and how attractive they were. Then 
he came to the point which concerned him. 

“In all the tidying up you’ve done here in the past four 
or five years, I don’t see anything to beat this establish¬ 
ment or the one just across the street. I’d call that the 
kind of an enterprise that wouldn’t look so bad in Indian¬ 
apolis or Chicago,” he said. 

“And that’s a funny thing,” said the clerk. “Ever 
since I was a little shaver running around town, Nancy 
Bodkin has been in the millinery business here. Good 
years she managed to make ends meet and bad years she 
didn t. And I ve heard here lately that she was just at the 
point of going bankrupt and giving up in despair when 
along comes a stranger in town and they get to work 
together.” 

Oh, said Jason, “then the stranger represents the 
‘and Company’?” 

“Yeh,” said the clerk, “represents the ‘and Company.’” 

And the and Company had money to pull the con¬ 
cern up to a corner building and all that foxy millinery and 
ladies’ fixings?” 

No, said the clerk. “1 hat’s the funny part of it. 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 


337 

The ‘and Company’ came in and went to work as she 
stood. There’s been quite a bit of talk among the women¬ 
folks off and on, but nobody has ever discovered, either 
from the ‘and Company’ or from Nancy, where she came 
from or how she happened to come. She didn’t have 
anything but herself, but she knew how to wash windows 
and how to clean up. I can remember that I saw her my¬ 
self the day she climbed on a store box and started paint¬ 
ing the front of Nancy Bodkin’s store with a bucket of 
paint and a brush. When she got it painted on the out¬ 
side as far as she could reach, she painted it on the inside. 
She had such a knack of selling goods and she was so keen 
about buying, that in no time at all they pulled right out, 
and now look where they are!” 

“You think they did it all by themselves?” persisted 
Jason. 

“Sure of it,” said the clerk. “So’s every one else. 
They didn’t get a cent of help from any one; the banker 
says so. This ‘and Company,’ whose name happens to be 
Marcia Peters, marched into the bank and told the 
banker what she was going to do and she told it so con¬ 
vincingly that he believed her. He loaned her what she 
needed for her first order of millinery, on the strength of 
her face and her convincing talk. It shows what a couple 
of women can do if they put their heads together and de¬ 
cide that they’ll do it.” 

Without realizing precisely what he was doing, Jason 
reached up and took off his hat. He hung it over one of 
his knees and sipping at the milk shake, he sat looking 


THE WHITE FLAG 


338 

across the street. He could see Marcia moving back and 
forth behind the counters. Once she followed a customer 
to the door and stood talking a minute, her face full of 
interest and animation. She looked the proud, com¬ 
petent, confident woman of business. He was possessed 
of an impulse to cross the street and say to her: “Mother, 

I am glad that you are getting along so finely. I’m 
gladder than I ve any words to tell you that you are cap¬ 
able of taking care of yourself.” 

When the impulse was quite the strongest, there came 
to Jason the realization that the woman he was watching 
could not, by any possibility, have been his mother. If 
his head ever had lain under her heart through the long 
journey from conception to birth, if his lips ever had 1 
mouthed at her breast and his baby hands slid over her face, 
it would have been impossible for the woman he knew 
Marcia to be, to have vanished in the night as she had, five 
long years ago. It was because she had not known these 
experiences, that even the boy sensed as the life, the heart, 
and the soul of the experience of women who are mothers, 
that she could stand there with her head erect and her eyes 
clear, meeting the world openly and unafraid. 

She must know that he was in Ashwater. She must 
know what he w T as doing. If she wanted him, she knew 
where to find him. Since she did not seek him, since she 
sent no word, why should he thrust himself upon her? He 
could see that she was happy. He could see that she was 
respected and prosperous. And he found as he watched 
her, that there was a feeling of satisfaction growing in his 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 339 

heart concerning her. She was more of a woman than he 
had thought her. She was one human being who had 
escaped the power of Martin Moreland and who seemed 
to have come out unscathed. 

As he drove back to Ashwater he was debating m his 
mind as to whether he would tell Peter Potter about her 
and he was finding that he was consoled concerning her 
by the knowledge that she was comfortable and happy. 

Jason was right in his conjecture. Marcia was happy. 
She was happy to such a degree as she never had hoped to 
experience. Prosperity was written large all over the 
millinery store on the corner. It was written on Marcia, 
which made small difference to Bluffport as it had no 
realization that Marcia might not always have been rea¬ 
sonably prosperous. The concern of Bluffport centred 
upon Nancy Bodkin, who, following Marcia’s example, 
had lifted up her head, dressed her hair becomingly, pow¬ 
dered her nose, and exercised her art upon her dry goods as 
well as her head piece. 

These two women, each with her own secret in her own 
heart, so far as the world knew, formed a combination that 
was the subject of prideful commendation in Bluffport. 
There was not an enterprise in the town in which they 
were not interested. When the Grand Army needed help 
for an entertainment, they were first class at decorations 
and resourceful in suggesting programmes. When a cam¬ 
paign was in full blast, they were of great help to their 
party in the decoration of wagons and the management of 
parades, and on one occasion, Marcia had stood in the full 


340 


THE WHITE FLAG 

blaze of the sunlight of late October upon one of these 
wagons, in streaming robes of white, her gold hair un¬ 
bound and falling almost to her knees, and shown all 
Bluffport and the surrounding country what a living, 
breathing Goddess of Liberty should look like. When an 
epidemic of diphtheria struck the town and the Pres¬ 
byterian minister lost his wife and baby, leaving him 
helpless with another motherless little daughter, Marcia 
was sent by the church with lace and veiling to prepare 
the bodies for burial. Moving through the house at her 
work, she definitely caught the attention of the minister. 
He noticed her grace and her beauty. His heart was 
touched with her kindness to his terrified little daughter 
and her ability to soothe and quiet the frightened child. 
He carried the thought of her in the back of his head, 
and when time had healed his wounds and necessity had 
driven him to think of replacing his wife, the memory of 
Marcia came first to his thoughts and he began quietly and 
persistently to seek her company. 

Marcia tried to evade him, to escape his attention, 
but he soon made it apparent to every one that he was 
deliberately seeking her. One day he entered the mil¬ 
linery store carrying an armful of beautiful flowers that 
one of his parishioners had given to him. He explained 
to Marcia tnat he thought that she might like to have 
them, and so he had brought them to her. 

Peering from behind a case of hats, the little milliner 
watched with intense interest. If any male person ever had 
courted *icr, she nevei had mentioned the matter to any 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 34I 

one. In her heart there was the interest which any woman 
feels in watching another woman whom she loves being 
courted by an attractive man. Nancy Bodkin’s lips were 
parted and her eyes shining as she saw Marcia’s hand 
reach out to take the flowers, as she heard her graciously 
thank the minister for his thoughtfulness. Behind them, 
through the open doorway, she saw the figure of a tall, 
slender man whom she knew. He had been pointed out 
to her years before on the streets of Bluffport as Martin 
Moreland, the richest man of the county seat, the banker, 
a land holder who had so many farms covered with mort¬ 
gages that he was not supposed to know the exact number 
himself. 

The minister was acquainted with Martin Moreland and 
at once introduced him to Marcia. Moreland explained 
his presence by saying that he wished to be shown a gray 
hat displayed in the window which he thought might 
possibly make a suitable gift for his daughter Edith. He 
spent some time telling the minister in detail what a 
charming woman his son had married, the delight he found 
in spending his hard-earned money for her pleasure. Then 
he began playing with Marcia. 

At his first entrance he had merely bowed to her and 
devoted himself to the minister. After his explanation 
concerning the hat, he took it in his hands and examined 
it critically; he asked her personal opinion of it; he de¬ 
scribed the woman who was to wear it; then he asked 
Marcia to put it on in order that he could get its effect 
when worn. 


34 2 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Frightened almost to paralysis, tortured beyond endur¬ 
ance, afraid to refuse, Marcia put on the hat. It was one 
that had been built in particular reference to the lines 
of her face and head. As she settled it and turned, her 
beauty was strikingly enhanced. She was forced to stand 
before the two men, turning that they might get the full 
effect of it. Moreland admired the hat extravagantly and 
ended by purchasing it. 

While Marcia was packing the hat in a box that he might 
carry it away, he said to her very casually: “You have 
displayed such wonderful art in the making of hats that 
evidently the good Lord designed you to be a milliner. I 
scarcely think you would be successful should you ever 
attempt to be anything else.” 

Marcia understood. She mustered the courage to look 
him in the face as she replied: “I have not the slightest 
intention ever to attempt to be anything except a milli- 
ner. 

Moreland laughed; the old crafty look that Marcia so 
well knew was gleaming in his eyes. Then he took the hat 
and left the store with the remark that since he had dis¬ 
covered a place where such charming hats could be secured 
so reasonably, he thought that he would call again fre¬ 
quently. Swept by sickening waves throughout her being, 
Marcia had great difficulty in standing erect and keeping 
her facial muscles under control. 

The first thing she knew the minister had reached across 
the counter and caught her hands. He was telling her that 
it was his opinion that the good Lord had designed her to 


THE CLOUD THAT GREW 343 

be the helpmate in his clerical work, the love of his heart, 
and a mother to his lonely little daughter. 

Marcia drew away, telling him that it was quite im- 
possible that this should ever be. Disappointed, but un¬ 
convinced, the minister left the store, saying that he would 
give her time to think it over. He would come again and 
he would continue to plead his cause until he won. 

He had not reached the front door before Marcia rushed 
to the seclusion of the back room. She dropped beside a 
table, covered with gay flowers and ribbons, and sobbed 
out her heart to Nancy who had become her friend in deed 
and in truth. 

Since Martin Moreland had reentered her life, Marcia 
contemplated herself in astonishment. How had she ever 
dared to hope that he would drop out of it so easily? Why 
had she ever thought that there was any possibility other 
than that he was merely biding his time, waiting to crush 
her, until he could make his triumph over her the greater? 
All the sunshine had vanished from her day; all joy was 
dead in her heart. The life she must face she visioned as 
a dreary thing of suspense and fear. In agony she slid 
to her knees on the floor, laid her head in the lap of Nancy 
Bodkin, and with her arms around her, purged her soul. 
A few terse sentences were all that were necessary. 

Then in torture she cried to Nancy: “I am tempted to 
walk into the church and stand up before the minister and 
all the people, and proclaim myself!” 

Horrified, Nancy began to protest. She told Marcia 
what she already knew: that the public never forgives a 


344 


THE WHITE FLAG 


woman; that she would be driven from the town; that she 
would be forced to start life again among strangers; and 
that no matter where she went, Moreland would pursue 
her and try to exert his evil influence over her. Marcia 
stretched out her hands. 

“Nancy,” she cried, “'when you say people never for¬ 
give, does that include you?” 

Nancy began to cry. She threw her arms around 
Marcia’s shoulders and drew her head against her breast, 
and there she stroked it with shaking hands. 

“No!” she protested. “No! it doesn’t include me. I 
have not one word to say. I know nothing about your 
beginning. I know nothing about your temptation. I 
know nothing of the forces—they must have been some¬ 
thing underhand and terrible to drive so fine a woman as 
you into years of the life you say you have lived.” 

From that day forward it seemed to Marcia that she 
must never be out of the thoughts of Nancy Bodkin. 
Everything that she could do to protect her, to shield her, 
she did instinctively. When Nancy realized that Marcia 
was beginning to be afraid of the front door, she moved her 
work table to a point where she could command a view of 
it. She began the practice, whenever there were footsteps 
and the door opened, of sending a hasty glance in that 
direction and then nodding her head or calling to Marcia, 
and Marcia understood that in case Martin Moreland 
entered again, it was the intention of the little milliner to 
face him in her stead. 

Because of these things there developed in Marcia’s 



THE CLOUD THAT GREW 


345 

heart a feeling for Nancy Bodkin’s breadth of mind, her 
largeness of soul, and her clear-eyed judgment, that was 
pitiful. There was nothing that she would not gladly 
have done for Nancy. When she saw the light beginning 
to fade from Nancy’s eyes, the colour to pale on her cheeks, 
she was heart broken. 

And Nancy, in watching Marcia, was hurt infinitely 
worse. So hand in hand, the two of them went stumbling 
forward, making their bravest effort to meet life having 
the appearance of being upright and unafraid, when in 
reality each of them was filled with dreadful forebodings. 


CHAPTER XV 


The Last Straw 

AS MAHALA went intently and industriously about 
/_% her work, she was doing a great deal of thinking. 
jl JL She was forced to the conviction that she had no 
real friends in the whole of the town who would pursue 
her with friendship, who would thrust themselves upon 
her and make an effort to force her to feel that all of the 
years of her life when she had tried to be reasonably con¬ 
siderate of the people with whom she came in contact, had 
not been wasted. Out of the wreck, she was left with her 
mother's servant, whose roof now afforded shelter. There 
were times when she tried to think in a sort of dull daze 
what would have become of them had not that shelter been 
forthcoming. She looked at Jemima and found that she 
was loving her and clinging to her, giving to her at least 
a degree of the gratitude and the affection that should 
have gone to her mother. 

As she bent to stitch linings and wrestled with contrary 
wirings, Mahala was forever busy at her problem, because 
she had a problem to face. She realized from the manner 
in which her mother had listened that she would be inter¬ 
ested in repairing the house and moving to the bit of land 
that had fallen to them. But if she did this, she must 

346 


THE LAST STRAW 


347 

either keep a working place in the village and go back and 
forth, or she must undertake to handle the land in such a 
way as to make a living from it. On this part of her prob¬ 
lem Mahala was helpless. She knew nothing whatever 
of sowing and reaping, the rotation of crops; of gardening, 
of chickens, and of the raising of stock. The only thing 
she did know that she could turn to dollars and cents 
was the thing that she was doing. The only way in 
which she could procure even a small degree of comfort 
for her mother was to keep on with the work she really 
could do with assurance and with extremely profitable 
results. 

With a sharp eye upon every detail of expense, she began 
deliberately to see how much she could save that might 
be laid away toward the repairing of the farm house. If 
she had a few minutes to read, she found that she was 
reading about land. If there was spare time in which 
Jemima came and sat beside her and tried to help her with 
the coarser part of her work, she constantly questioned 
her to learn what she knew about soil, poultry, and garden¬ 
ing. 

One day she said to Jemima: “Old dear, how much 
of your life are you going to give to me ? I want to know 
definitely how long I can depend on you.” 

Jemima smiled at her. 

“Now, my dear,” she said, “don't be botherin' your 
head about that. There’s only one thing on earth that 
could happen that would take me away from you.” 

“You mean your son?” questioned Mahala. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


348 

“Yes,” said Jemima. “I mean my boy. He’s a fine, 
upstanding lad. From the time his father died till he 
could look out for himself, I took care of him. He's a 
good boy; he’s got a good wife. He’s got a houseful of 
fine babies. As long as everything goes all right with 
them, I’m free to stay with you and do all I can for you, 
and if it’s goin’ to be any comfort to you, I want you to 
understand that’s what I mean to do.” 

Mahala laid aside her work, and sitting on Jemima’s 
knee, she kissed her and smoothed her hair and told her 
how deeply she loved her, how sure she was of her friend¬ 
ship and sympathy. Then she went back to thinking who 
else there was that had proved a friend in her hour of 
need. After Jemima, Jason loomed large on her horizon. 
She had no positive knowledge, but she felt a certainty 
that he must be amplifying the baskets he delivered to 
her. She could hear him in the kitchen offering his serv¬ 
ices for any hard work requiring a man about the prem¬ 
ises. Any new food that was sent to the grocery, she was 
comfortably certain would be advertised with sufficient 
samples for a meal for the three of them in her basket. 
Any errand she could delegate to him he seemed delighted 
to do for her. So Mahala was forced to realize, that out¬ 
side of her home, the best friend she had in Ashwater was 
the son of her mother’s washerwoman. 

Edith Williams had not been to see Mahala on a real, 
friendly, old-time visit since the day of her catastrophe. 
She had not been in her home upon any excuse for even a 
short period since the day of her marriage. Mahala had 


THE LAST STRAW 349 

understood a great deal concerning that marriage. She 
had realized how hard it would be for Edith to come. She 
had scarcely expected that she would, and yet, when one is 
utterly stranded, altogether bereft, one will cling even to 
straws, and if there was a girl in the town who should have 
stood staunchly by Mahala, it was Edith Williams. 
Many times in a day there was a click of the latch of the 
gate at which Mahala lifted a busy head, and in the be¬ 
ginning, there frequently had been a rush of colour to her 
cheeks, a light in her eyes. As the weeks went by, very 
frequently she did not even take the trouble to raise her 
head. Life had reduced things to the certainty that any 
one entering her gate came to have a dress remodelled, a 
hat made over. The last straw was the desertion of 
Susanna of the outskirts, Susanna who had kept the em¬ 
broidered petticoat. Thinking on this subject, Mahala 
fell into a mental habit of saying: “Even Susanna!” 

In the beginning, Mahala forced her customers tc 
realize quite all that she was worth to them. She did her 
work conscientiously and honestly. She could not be 
forced, in remodelling a dress, to make an extremely wide 
skirt and panniers for a fat woman; she would not put a 
narrow skirt and a long polonaise on a thin woman. She 
frequently required changes in hair dressing before she 
would make a hat for a customer. She flatly refused 
either to make a hat or to remodel a dress unless she 
were allowed to use her own taste. When her customers 
really learned what had happened to them under Mahala’s 
skilful fingers, they were compelled to admit that she had 


THE WHITE FLAG 


35o 

made such a great improvement in their appearance that 
they were in her debt. 

When she had fully forced this realization upon them, 
Mahala began quietly but persistently to raise her prices. 
She did nothing but good work. She made her charge 
commensurate with the time and the labour she had ex¬ 
pended. Gradually she began to teach the whole town 
how to make the most of their looks, of the material that 
they could afford to use. So it was only a few months 
until she was making a comfortable living for herself and 
for her mother, till she was slipping away small sums des¬ 
tined for the restoration of the old house. 

One morning, one of her customers stopping for a word 
of gossip, told Mahala that Edith Moreland was a very 
sick woman. She was having great difficulty in breathing 
and was being frequently attacked with fainting spells, 
and the doctors had ordered an immediate change of 
climate. After the woman had gone, Mahala sat thinking. 
Some undiscovered malady always had preyed upon Edith. 
During the past year Mahala had hoped that she was 
better. This report seemed to indicate that she was not. 
As she bent above her work, Mahala was wondering 
what would constitute a change of climate. Where 
would they take Edith in the hope that she might 
escape a severe illness? She thought of Junior. She 
could picture his dismay at being bound to a woman who 
was ill. He had no stomach for people who were in pain 
and trouble; that Mahala thoroughly understood. 

It was while she was pondering on these things that the 


THE LAST STRAW 351 

grinding of wheels before her door caused her to look up, 
and to her deep surprise, she saw Mrs. Moreland alighting 
from her carriage and coming in. Mahala always had 
been sorry for Mrs. Moreland. She had recognized in 
her a woman who was trying to do what was right, to 
live an exemplary life before her community. Through 
her own distaste for the methods of Martin Moreland 
and Junior, she had arrived at a realizing sense of how 
frequently this same distaste must be in the mouth of a 
right-thinking woman who was trying to live with them 
daily. 

She opened her door and admitted Mrs. Moreland 
quietly and with the self-possession which always had 
characterized her. It was evident that her visitor was 
very much perturbed. She refused to be seated. 

Without preliminaries she said: “Mahala, Edith is very 
sick this morning. She can scarcely breathe. The doctor 
has said that her only chance depends upon getting her 
to another climate as promptly as possible. We have 
planned to start her South and she should go at once, but 
she positively refuses until she has at least a dress to 
travel in and a hat of the latest mode. Right away I 
thought of you. I want you to come and help me get her 
off as soon as possible .” 

Mahala stood very still for a second, then she said 
quietly: “Thank you very much, Mrs. Moreland. For 
your sake I should like to do what you ask, but it is quite 
impossible. Mother is still confined to her bed and I never 
go from the sound of her voice. I’m always here in case 


352 THE WHITE FLAG 

she wants me. Surely there is some one else who can help 
you with Edith.” 

“Oh, yes/’ said Mrs. Moreland, “there are a number of 
people who could, but you know as well as I do that Edith 
wouldn’t touch what they did. She’s always sent away 
for her things and had her dresses made by that woman in 
Covington who works on a form from her measurements. 
There isn’t time to wait for her. It’s a matter of life and 
death, I tell you!” 

“I’m sorry,” said Mahala, “but I can’t possibly come 
to your house to work. As I told you before, I don’t want 
to leave Mother, and in the next place, I can’t afford to 
miss the work that I might lose by being away.” 

“So far as that is concerned,” said Mrs. Moreland, “of 
course, I’m willing to pay you for anything you might pos¬ 
sibly lose through helping us to get Edith off. I can’t 
understand your refusal when you and Edith always have 
been the dearest friends.” 

Mahala opened her lips and then she closed them. She 
looked at Mrs. Moreland intently. 

“I had supposed,” she said gently, “that every one in 
Ashwater knew that I haven’t been overburdened with 
friends of late. When I was in a position where I could not 
go to my friends and they failed to come to me, I had not 
the feeling that it was my right to seek them afterward. 
I took their failure to appear as conclusive evidence that 
they were not my friends.” 

“I scarcely think,” said Mrs. Moreland, “that such a 
criticism applies to me.” 


THE LAST STRAW 


353 

“No,” said Mahala, “it does not. You did come, and 
you were kindness itself. But you happen to be the one 
woman in town from whose hands I could not accept 
kindness.” 

“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Moreland, “that you’re 
not quite as big and as fine as I always have thought you 
if you allow anything that has happened to keep you from 
doing what you can to save a life. I’m sorry if you feel 
you have reason to blame Mr. Moreland or me for any¬ 
thing that happened concerning your father’s loss of his 
property. Certainly, you can’t feel that Edith had any¬ 
thing to do with it. She was your friend, and you were 
hers; and now she is ill and asking for you—such a little 
favour that you could so well grant -and you refuse. 
Mahala, I am surprised at you!” 

It was on Mahala’s lips to tell Mrs. Moreland that she 
was quite welcome to be surprised or the reverse. That 
pride that had caused her father’s downfall was a lively 
part of her inheritance from him. It touched her pride 
that she should be accused of failing a friend when she was 
ill. Possibly it was her part to teach Edith the better way. 

“If you put it in that light,” she said, “I’ll ask 
Mother. If she thinks she can spare me, I will come.” 

She stepped to the bedroom and found her mother 
soundly sleeping. Upon her relaxed face there was a look 
of quiet and peace that was not present when her mental 
processes were working. Mahala imagined that she was 
better. She went out and explained the situation to 
Jemima. 


354 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“You go straight ahead,” said Jemima. “Go and do 
what they want, and then soak it to them good and proper. 
Make ’em pay fully three times what you would anybody 
else.” 

Mahala gathered up her workbag, the implements she 
was accustomed to handling in her trade, and climbing 
into the carriage, was driven to the Moreland residence. 

Her first day’s work progressed finely. She was given 
exquisite material that had been clumsily made to alter. 
With touches here and there Mahala could transform a 
dress into a garment expressing the height of the prevailing 
mode. The instincts of the artist awoke in her and she 
began her work with enthusiasm and growing confidence. 
Junior and his father did not appear. Edith was so ill 
that she only spoke to her when it was necessary to find 
out what she wanted done, and how she wanted it. When 
she left at night she took several hats with her to remodel. 

^Until past midnight she was bending over them, changing, 
altering, then adding touches to heighten their attractive¬ 
ness. When Edith sat up long enough to try them on 
in the morning, she was effusive in her gratitude. 

An effort was being made to have her ready to leave on 
the noon train. She sat on a chair before the mirror where 
she could study the effect of the hats she tried on. Mahala 
was standing beside her fitting one upon which she was 
working, when Junior entered the room. He brought him¬ 
self into immediate proximity with Mahala. He kissed 
Edith and made a great display of affection for her. He 
told her that his mother had finished packing her trunks 


3S5 


THE LAST STRAW 

and that everything would be ready for them to start on 
the noon train. He dropped into her lap, for safekeeping, 
a pocket book which he told her contained the money for 
their journey and also the money to pay Mahala when she 
had completed her work. He explained that he would be 
forced to return to the bank on some business matters 
that he must finish before they started. 

Edith picked up the pocket book and returned it to him. 
She said: Put it on the table in the parlour beside the 
coat that is laid out for me to wear.” 

Junior took the pocket book and stood an instant hold ¬ 
ing it, and then he said to her: “Is there any one else in 
the house 5 ” 

Edith replied: “No, there is not.” 

“All right,” said Junior, “I guess it will be safe then, 
but I 11 warn you to keep an eye on it. Father wants you 
to have every luxury while we’re away, and he nearly 
broke the bank when he filled that pocket book.” 

He stepped into the parlour and laid the long bill book 
on the table where he had been told; returning immedi¬ 
ately, he left by passing through the dining room and kit¬ 
chen, stopping a minute to speak to the gardener who was 
at work in the back yard. He went out of the side gate, 
which opened into an alley used by the Morelands as a 
short cut to the bank, and there he encountered Rebecca 
Sampson. 

Rebecca was coming down the alley, her well-filled mar¬ 
ket basket on her arm, her white flag flashing in the sun¬ 
light. When Junior saw her, he stopped short, seeming to 


356 THE WHITE FLAG 

be possessed with an idea. He paused in deep thought 
for a minute, and when Rebecca lowered the flag, crowded 
to the farthest width of the alley and started to pass him 
with forbidding countenance, he took off his hat and smiled 
at her in a friendly manner. 

In an aggrieved voice he said to her: “Becky, I am sur¬ 
prised at you! How can such a beautiful woman as you 
are let other people see that you think I have a bad heart? 
How can you have a clean heart yourself, unless you for¬ 
give other people? I know I was wild when I was a boy, 
but I’m a married man now, a staid business man. I’ll 
never tease you again or allow the other boys to, if you’ll 
let me pass under your flag.” 

Instantly, Rebecca relented. She held up the flag, 
since one of the greatest objects of her wrecked brain was 
to see any one, whosoever would, bow his head and rev¬ 
erently pass under it. That her old-time enemy and 
tormentor had promised never to tease her again, had 
asked the privilege of passing under the flag, delighted 
Rebecca so that she held the white emblem high and said 
an unusually long blessing as Junior Moreland bowed his 
head and passed under. Then he talked to her for a min¬ 
ute longer and hurried up the alley to the bank. Before 
he left the alley, he turned and watched Rebecca’s move¬ 
ments. When finally he saw her go from sight, he smiled 
to himself and hurried on his way. 

Mahala put the finishing touches on the hat, and carry¬ 
ing it into the parlour, laid it beside the coat as Edith 
had told her to do. Returning to the living room, she 


THE LAST STRAW 


357 

closed the parlour door enough to conceal Edith from the 
view of any one who might enter the room, and began 
work on the front of the waist she was altering. When 
the waist was finished, her work was done. She gathered up 
her measures, her scissors, and began packing her workbag. 

Edith watched her and into her selfish, indifferent heart 
there crept a pang of remembrance of the many happy 
times that they had enjoyed together as children. 

She said to Mahala: “I can’t tell you how much I thank 
you for helping me out. I really am awfully sick. I 
suppose I shouldn’t have stopped a minute for anything, 
but I’m going to be better in a few days and I couldn’t 
endure the thought of being packed off where I might look 
like a rag to Junior.” 

“You’re quite welcome,” said Mahala quietly. “I 
was glad to do anything I could for you.” 

Edith hesitated. She opened her lips. She knew what 
she should say, but she had not quite the moral courage 
to say it. Seeing Mahala, with the joy of youth wiped 
from her face, with the dancing sparkle lost from her eyes, 
her delicate hands roughened through handling contrary 
material and the constant plying of her needle, hurt her, 
She wanted to open her arms and cry: “Mahala, forgive 
me! Let’s be friends again. When I come back, let’s 
be friends!” 

Lacking moral courage, as she always had lacked it, 
what she did say was: “Junior said the money to pay you 
was in the pocket book he laid beside my coat. Will you 
hand it to me?” 


I 


358 THE WHITE FLAG 

Mahala swung open the door and stepped toward the 
table. Then she paused and said over her shoulder: 
“Why, Edith, the pocket book isn’t here. Mrs. Moreland 
must have taken charge of it.” 

At that minute Mrs. Moreland entered from the dining 
room. 

Edith said to her: “Mother, have you been in the 
parlour?” 

Mrs. Moreland shook her head. “No,” she said, “I’m 
trying to help get a decent dinner on the table for you 
before you leave.” 

“That’s strange,” said Edith. “There’s nobody else 
in the house, is there?” 

, “Not that I know of,” said Mrs. Moreland. 

Immediately turmoil began. Edith asked Mahala if 
she had seen the pocket book when she entered the parlour 
with her hat, and Mahala replied that she had. It was 
lying in plain sight on the table beside the coat. No one 
else had been in the room. There was a hush; and then 
both the Moreland women focussed amazed, questioning 
eyes upon Mahala. Suddenly it occurred to her that a« 
she was the only one known to have entered the room, 
they were looking accusingly at her. A gush of red from 
her outraged heart stained her face and then sank back 
and left it, by contrast, all the whiter. 

Both hands clutched her workbag tightly and she cried 
to Edith: “It is not possible that you think I touched 
that pocket book?” 

Edith replied slowly: “I don’t want to think that, 


THE LAST STRAW 359 

Mahala. But since you’re the only person who’s been in 
the room, and since every one knows that you’ve been 
needing money so badly, I should say that, at least, it’s 
up to you to find it.” 

Mahala lifted her head. All the pride of a long race 
of proud people was in her blood. Her voice was smooth 
and even as she said: “You’re quite mistaken, Edith. It 
is not ‘up to me’ to do anything except to receive the pay 
for the work I have done for you and then to go home.” 

' Edith’s smile was the most disfiguring her face had ever 
known. Seeing it, Mahala spoke further. 

“We were not in a position to see who might have en¬ 
tered the room while I was working on your waist. If you 
want to search me, I am perfectly willing that you should 
satisfy yourself that I have not the pocket book before I 
leave the house.” 

At this unfortunate juncture, Martin Moreland entered 
the room. Instantly, he sensed the tense situation and 
began asking questions. Edith reached out her hands to 
him and began to cry. Immediately, he rushed to Mahala, 
seized her roughly by the arm, and cried: “You’ll stay right 
here, my lady, till you’re searched from head to heels. 
You’ll not leave this house till that pocket book is dis¬ 
covered. It was crammed as full as it would hold with 
money for this journey.” 

Edith immediately chimed in to explain that Junior 
had said that the purse contained a large amount of money 
when she had told him to put it with her coat. She had 
not been sitting where she could see in the other room, 


THE WHITE FLAG 


360 

but there had been no sound, no one had opened or closed 
a door, no one had entered the parlour or passed down the 
hall. The pocket book must be in the room. 

During the ensuing discussion, Junior came hurrying in 
to tell them that time was flying and that they had 
none to waste. His father and mother and Edith joined 
in excitedly explaining the situation to him. 

Instantly, he went to Mahala, put his arm across her 
shoulders, and said to her in a voice filled with pity: “My 
poor little schoolmate, have death and misfortune driven 
you to this? If you needed money so badly, why didn’t 
you ask me? You know I would gladly have given it 
to you.” 

Mahala sprang away from him, staring at him with 
tense, wide eyes. 

Mr. Moreland straightened up. 

“junior,” he said sharply, “we haven’t time for any 
nonsense of that sort! Get yourself down town by the 
shortest cut and bring a policeman to search her.” 

At this Mahala lifted her head. She said to Mr. More¬ 
land: ‘ No officer shall touch me. If it is your wish that I 
be searched, you may leave the room and Mrs. Moreland 
may satisfy herself and Edith that neither the pocket book 
nor the money is on my person.” 

At this juncture Edith began to gasp for breath; then 
she collapsed on the sofa, declaring that she was dying. 
Mrs. Moreland spoke authoritatively for the first time: 
“No one is going to lay a finger on Mahala Spellman 
in this house, she said. Every one of you very well 


THE LAST STRAW 361 

knows that she’s quite incapable of touching anything that 
doesn’t belong to her. If she says she did not touch that 
pocket book, she didn’t!” 

Then she turned to Mahala and said to her: ‘Tut on 
your hat, child, take your workbag, and go home.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Moreland,” said Mahala, and she 
started toward the door. 

The elder Moreland stepped in front of her. He had 
worked himself into a rage. He declared that she should 
not leave the house carrying three thousand dollars with 
her. Junior agreed with him. 

He said to his father: “This breaks my heart. What a 
dreadful thing that the loss of her money should have so 
undermined the principles of such a girl as we always have 
supposed Mahala to be!” 

And then he turned to Mahala in direct appeal. 

Mahala,’ he begged, “please tell me where the pocket 
book is and you shall go free. All of us will agree never 
to mention it. You couldn’t possibly get away with steal¬ 
ing that amount of money.” 

He extended his hands to her and pleaded with her 
to save herself while there was yet time. 

“Mahala, you can’t do it! What are you thinking of?” 
he cried. 

Mahala replied quietly: “Fm thinking of a threat 
you made only a few weeks ago to degrade me till even the 
dogs of Ashwater would not bark at me. I’m thinking 
that this is your first move in fulfilling that threat.” 

Edith immediately recovered her breath. She sat 


THE WHITE FLAG 


362 

erect and demanded: “Why should Junior have made 
such a horrible threat as that against you?” 

Mahala answered: “Well, if Junior were like other men, 
I should advise you to ask him.” 

Edith instantly turned to Junior. He went to her, 
forcing her to lie down, and begging her to calm herself. 
He turned to his father and said to him: “Take Mother 
and Mahala into the parlour. Shut the door. If this 
thing’s carried much further, it may kill Edith.” 

The elder Moreland immediately obeyed. 

As soon as they were left alone, Junior said to Edith: 
“You very well know how Mahala always hung around 
me and bothered me with her attentions, and there w'ere 
times when she had me fooled into thinking she was the 
one I really cared for. But when I learned Commence¬ 
ment night how beautiful you really were, superior in 
every way to Mahala, and when I let you see it, right away 
she got ugly. She threatened to ruin our happiness when 
I told her that I meant to ask you to marry me.” 

Instantly Edith put her arms around him and kissed 
him and comforted him. She turned against Mahala, 
saying: “She’s so plausible she could deceive St. Peter with 
her innocent face and her snaky airs. Go, and call a po¬ 
liceman. I don’t care if you do. Make her shell out 
all that money and then put her out of this house!” 

The horrible scene ended on the entrance of the gardener 
with the policeman, who forcibly conducted a search of 
Mahala and her bag, and announced that neither the 
pocket book nor the money was on her. When Junior 


THE LAST STRAW 363 

was told that the bill book could not be found, he said 
slowly: “She must have managed to hand it out of the 
front door to some one to take to her house for her. Cheer 
up, Dad, if it isn’t here, it’s there. You’ll find it all right!” 

Martin Moreland then told the policeman to take 
Mahala to the station and detain her until he had time to 
swear out a warrant for her arrest and a permit to search 
her house. The policeman knew he had no right to detain 
Mahala without a warrant, but she did not, so he took 
her by the arm and started down the street with her 
toward the station. 

As they reached the gate she said to him: “Will you 
kindly remove your hand from my arm? I’ve not the 
slightest intention of trying to escape.” 

It was the officer’s first chance to display the depths of 
his nature to the girl against whom the venom of unsuc¬ 
cess in his heart had secretly been directed all her life. 
He deliberately tightened his grip until he felt her wince; 
he started walking so rapidly that every one was forced 
to notice that Mahala was in his custody, as he intended 
that they should. So the main street of the town stood 
gaping at the sight of Mahala being forcibly propelled in 
the direction of the station house by the village police¬ 
man. 

In passing Peter Potter’s grocery they met Jason ar¬ 
ranging a display of baskets outside the window. In de¬ 
spair Mahala caught his arm. 

In a low voice she cried to him: “Jason! Jason! Junior 
has managed to make trouble for me! Run quick to 


364 THE WHITE FLAG 

Albert Rich’s office and ask him to hurry to the police 
station!” 

A few minutes after her arrival, Martin Moreland en¬ 
tered. He was shaking with anger, white with emotion. 
Unhesitatingly he swore out a warrant charging Mahala 
with the theft of three thousand dollars, and also a search 
warrant for her home. He asked that she be required to 
furnish bail to cover the amount she was accused of having 
taken. Mahala was terrified; she was nauseated; but she 
tried to keep her head erect, tried to think. 

She replied: “You very well know that I cannot.” 

A few minutes later she was behind the bars of a cell 
allotted to the vagrants and the common drunks of the 
town. She stood erect in the middle of it, holding her 
skirts that they might not be contaminated. Then Albert 
Rich and Jason entered the building. The lawyer im¬ 
mediately began to arrange details for her release. 

With his first understanding of the situation, Jason said: 
“I will furnish the money for her bail, but if it has to be 
cash, I’ll have to drive to Bluffport. I must draw it from 
the bank.” 

He begged that Mahala be allowed to go home, even if 
the policeman must accompany her, till he could secure 
the money. This was refused, and Mahala was forced to 
remain in the cell until Jason could make the drive to Bluff- 
port and return with the amount needed taken from his 
years of savings. During all that time Mahala stood 
waiting. She never spoke save to ask repeatedly for water; 
thirst seemed to be consuming her. It was three hours 


THE LAST STRAW 


365 

later that the cell door was unlocked. Mahala stepped 
out, and between her lawyer and Jason, entered a carriage 
and was driven home. 

There she found the Senior Moreland and the police 
officer searching the house in detail; her mother again lying 
unconscious, having been brutally told of the trouble. 
Moreland’s complaint was formally lodged against Ma¬ 
hala and her trial was set, at her own request, almost im¬ 
mediately. In a daze she worked over her mother. 

Jason and Albert Rich made frantic efforts. They ex¬ 
hausted every means possible to them to find whether any 
one had been seen around the Moreland house at that time. 
Most of .the women in the town did their own work. It 
was near the noon hour that the pocket book had disap¬ 
peared. All of the neighbours had been in their kitchens 
at the time. No one could be found who had seen any 
one upon the streets that was not a resident going about 
his business. 

A few days later, in a dull daze, Mahala stood in the 
town court house and heard herself arraigned upon the 
charge of having stolen three thousand dollars from the 
residence of Martin Moreland. She listened to the read¬ 
ings of the depositions of Junior Moreland and his wife, 
who had left on the noon train as arranged on the day of 
the trouble. She listened to the harsh testimony of Mar¬ 
tin Moreland. She saw him glare at his wife. She saw 
the cruel grip with which he clutched her arm as he pre¬ 
tended carefully to lead her to the witness stand. She 
saw the shrinking, cowering woman lift a blanched face 


THE WHITE FLAG 


366 

to the judge, and having been sworn, she heard her testify 
to having seen her son enter the living room with the 
pocket book in his hand, to having been told by him what 
sum it contained as he passed through the kitchen where 
she was hurriedly preparing dinner. He had explained 
that the money to pay Mahala was to be taken from it and 
the remainder was for the expenses of his trip with Edith. 
She told of hearing his voice as he talked to the two women 
and of having spoken with him again as he passed back 
through the dining room and kitchen on the way out. 
She told of having seen him stand a minute in conversation 
with the gardener at the back door and then start on his 
way toward the alley gate to go back to the bank. She 
could testify to nothing else except entering the room when 
she had been called after the loss of the pocket book had 
been discovered. 

Pressed by Albert Rich with the question: “Have you 
any theory, Mrs. Moreland, can you offer any explanation 
as to how that pocket book might have disappeared ?” she 
hesitated, evidently suffering cruelly, then with dry lips 
she said: “I have not.” 

And again Albert Rich asked her: “Is it your belief that 
Mahala Spellman, the daughter of Mahlon and Elizabeth 
Spellman, stole that money ?” 

She answered promptly: “It is not.” 

Pressed again to explain how else it could have disap¬ 
peared, she answered: “I do not know, but there must 
have been some other way.” 

Then Mahala was asked if there was anything she 


, the LAST STRAW 367 

wished to say. She took the stand and clearly and un¬ 
waveringly, she made her testimony. She detailed every 
occuirence simply and explicitly. She admitted having 
seen the pocket book, which she described, in Junior’s 
hands and again in the parlour lying where Edith had told 
him to place it, when she had been sent to lay the hat she 
had finished beside the coat. She stoutly denied having 
touched it. 

Under skilful questioning by Albert Rich the facts were 
developed that it would have been possible for any one 
who knew that the money was there to have entered 
the hall quietly, either at the front or side door, and 
taken it away. In rebuttal the Morelands were prompt 
with the evidence that no one knew that the money was 
in the house except Junior and his father, both of whom 
were occupied at the bank at the time of its disappear¬ 
ance, and the people who had been in the Moreland 
home, each of whom could be accounted for. Mahala’s 
lawyer made much of the fact that the money could not 
be found upon her or in her home, and that she had not 
been from the sight of the Junior Mrs. Moreland except 
for the minute when she had laid the finished hat beside 
the coat. 

Anticipating this testimony, Martin Moreland had 
packed the front seats of the courtroom with his followers. 
At this statement all of them laughed immoderately. 
There was confusion in the court. Mahala turned deliber¬ 
ately, and so standing, she slowly searched the room filled 
with faces on not one of which could she find real sympathy, 


THE WHITE FLAG 


368 

compassion, or comfort save on the agonized white face 
of Jason gazing up at her. Then she studied the jury, man 
by man, and as she did so, she realized that the power and 
the wealth of Martin Moreland had been lavished upon it. 

She turned to the judge, who had been a friend of her 
father, with whose children she had played, and who had 
known her all her life. 

Unexpectedly, she flashed at him the question: “Judge 
Staples, do you truly believe that I stole that money?” 

The judge leaned toward her with tears in his eyes. 

He answered: “What I truly believe, Mahala, can be of 
no earthly value to you now. The only thing that can 
help you here with this accusation against you, is for the 
prosecutor to fail in proving that you took it.” 

Mahala cried to him: “You know I cannot prove that I 
did not take it; but you know equally as well that he 
cannot prove that I did.” 

Sorrowfully the old judge said: “In order to be cleared 
of this charge, Mahala, the prosecutor must fail to prove 
that you took the money.” 

Her head bowed, Mahala stood thinking. 

Finally she said to the judge and to the jury: “So far 
as I know, I am quite helpless. I have no proof to offer 
other than my own word. If you will not accept that 
I seem to be at your mercy. I beg that you will get 
through with this in the speediest manner possible.” 

The judge closed the case by instructing the jury on 
the subject of “reasonable doubt” and sent them to agree 
on a verdict. After a day's deliberation a verdict of dis- 


THE LAST STRAW 369 

agreement was rendered. That jury had contained one 
man whom Martin Moreland dared not approach, a man 
who had convictions, and was above a price. He had 
obstinately refused to agree to finding Mahala guilty. He 
roundly scored the other men for their lack of penetration, 
of mercy, of honesty. 

When Mahala heard the verdict, she quietly slid down in 
her seat and was taken home unconscious by her lawyer 
and Jason. When reason returned, many days later, she 
had to be told that the shock of the trial had driven her 
mother, in agony and doubt, to her long rest. There 
awaited Mahala this alleviation: Her case had been dis¬ 
missed by the sympathetic judge. It was his feeling that 
the evidence was not sufficient to merit punishment on 
Mahala’s part. He told the lawyer for the prosecution 
that he must produce something more tangible than the 
mere fact that Mahala had been in the house at the time 
the purse was taken. 

This knowledge came too late to be of material help 
to Mahala. When Jemima tried to tell her, she discovered 
from her bright eyes, her burning cheeks, and a quivering 
of her lips that she had developed a fever, and for weeks 
she lay scorching and babbling while Jemima and Doctor 
Grayson, with Jason in the background, worked over her. 

In leaving the courtroom, Jason made an attempt to 
attack Martin Moreland. The banker was half expecting 
that something of the kind might happen. He had so 
surrounded himself with people craving his favour that 
the boy was not able even to reach him. 


370 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Then Jason felt the hand of Albert Rich on his arm and 
he heard his voice saying: “Don’t be a fool, Jason. You 
can’t get at him that way. You can’t help her that way. 
We must make a clean job of this even if it’s a long one. 
We’ve got to trace this thing out and find exactly how it 
happened. Every one knows there’s been some under¬ 
hand work somewhere.” 

When Jason became more controlled, he said to Albert 
Rich: “Isn’t it like Junior Moreland to make this horrible 
trouble and then disappear and leave his father to get 
through with the dirty work?” 

“Yes,” said Albert Rich, “it’s exactly like Junior to do 
that very thing.” 

“The day is coming,” said Jason, “and it’s coming very 
speedily, when I shall be forced to kill both of those slip¬ 
pery snakes.” 

“Hush!” cautioned Albert Rich, “I tell you that when 
you say such things you make a fool of yourself. You 
must not let people hear you. If they did, and anything 
happened to either one of them, those who heard would 
remember and your day of trouble would come. In that 
case, you would cease to be of any help to Mahala.” 

With scarcely a thought of food or sleep, completely 
neglecting his work, Jason got through the first days of 
Mahala s illness. When he learned that it would be a 
thing of long duration, that it was an hourly fight that 
would stretch out for weeks, he saw that the best thing 
he could do was to find another woman to help Jemima 
and himself, to be on hand as frequently as possible in 


THE LAST STRAW 371 

order that their every need might be quickly supplied. 
In this extremity Jason was so obsessed in helping with 
the fight for Mahala's life that he had no time to pay any 
attention to any one else. If he had been paying atten¬ 
tion, he might have seen that there was something of a 
turning in the tide of feeling concerning Mahala. There 
had been many people who, in the beginning, had accepted 
the thought that because of her father's disaster and her 
need for money, she might have done this thing, even as 
Junior had pityingly suggested to every one he could be¬ 
fore leaving. 

But there were a number of people in the town, who, 
when they stopped to think for a few days, realized the 
fact that Mahala was not in financial extremity. Albert 
Rich had discovered a piece of land belonging to her, that 
with cleaning up and cultivation, might become valuable. 
Jemima was furnishing her a roof. With her own efforts 
she was earning a comfortable living for herself and her 
mother. It was these people who began saying, at first 
tentatively and later with confidence, that the whole thing 
was another piece of dirty work on the part of the More¬ 
lands; that it was quite impossible that the daughter of 
Mahlon and Elizabeth Spellman should be a common 
thief; that it was unthinkable that the little girl who had 
been reared among them with such fastidious care should 
have developed a moral nature that could so easily be 
broken down. 

In the days that passed while Mahala lay muttering on 
her pillow, there were many people who began making 



372 


THE WHITE FLAG 


the journey to her door, and the door was as far as any 
of them ever travelled. Right there the face of Jemima, 
as coldly graven as any face of stone, met them, and 
Jemima did not mince words. 

She said to Mrs. Williams flatly: “You're about three 
weeks too late. The time you ought to have come and 
made a stand and done something was before that damned 
trial. You let things go on and let her be tortured to 
the breakin’ point and now you want to know if there’s 
anything you can do! Let* me tell you pretty flat that 
there ain’t! What Mahala needs right now is cold baths 
and any nourishment she can take, and the loving care of 
people who understand her and sympathize with her, and 
that she’s gettin’ from me. If any of the rest of the folks 
is meditatin’ cornin’, at this time of the day, you can tell 
’em from me that I wish they’d stay away. They’re 
takin’ up time and they’re usin’ strength that Mahala 
needs!” 

She shut the door w T ith all the emphasis she dared—but 
her consideration was solely for the girl lying in the room 
in which her mother had lain for such a long time before 
her. Her heavy hair was unbound and spread over the 
pillow. Her body lay quiet; her head kept rolling back 
and forth; her hands picked at the covers or twisted to¬ 
gether, and from her lips there came constantly a plaintive 
murmur: Where were all her friends? Had she no friends 
anywhere in the world ? Sometimes she spent hours try¬ 
ing to convince her father or her mother that she was not 
a thief. Sometimes she cried pitifully and begged the 


THE LAST STRAW 373 

whole town to believe that it was impossible that she could 
have done the thing of which she was accused. 

Presently, the greater part of the town began to believe 
this. Martin Moreland found he was meeting a look of 
cold questioning on the faces of men who always had been 
friendly. The pastor of the Presbyterian Church, of 
which he was a deacon, had entered his room at the bank 
and no one knew what took place behind the closed doors, 
but as he left the room, several customers in the bank had 
heard his voice distinctly as he said to Martin Moreland: 
“I have the feeling that the life of this girl is endangered. 
If it is to be saved, it is upon your head to discover the 
necessary evidence to save it.” That was repeated over 
the town, and there were many who came to feel the same 
way. 

For once in her life Mahala was being the perfect lady 
that her mother had always exhorted her to be. She was 
lying still, having the typhoid fever, undoubtedly from 
germs she had accumulated in the county jail where she 
had drunk avidly to quench a consuming thirst while she 
waited for Jason—having it quietly, in a way that her 
mother would have highly approved had she been there 
to dictate exactly the manner in which a lady should 
have a fever. 

Sitting on the back steps waiting to see if the opportun¬ 
ity to be of any service might arise, Jason said to Jemima 
early in Mahala’s illness: “Tve been thinking. The 
money I put up for Mahala’s bail has been returned to me. 
Tve a notion to take some of it and fix up her house in the 


374 


THE WHITE FLAG 


country so that it will be ready for her to go to when she 
gets over this. There's nobody here she'll be interested in 
seeing. The change might give her something to think 
of, it might help her. How do you feel about it?" 

“I think," said Jemima, “that it would be the very 
thing. I'll go with her and we’ll live together. We'll 
raise chickens and calves and pigs and she'll feel better, 
be stronger, than she would at what she’s been doin’." 

So the two conspirators began a plot that ended in 
Jason's finding a new interest in life. He told Peter Potter 
what he was planning, and with his approval and his help, 
Jason went at the work of repairing the house and redeem¬ 
ing the piece of land that Mahlon Spellman had thought so 
worthless that he had even forgotten to mention that he 
ever had purchased it. 


CHAPTER XVI 
The Eyes of Elizabeth 

AT A famous hotel in a summer resort where people 
/jk of wealth gathered, in the bridal suite, pampered 
X and indulged in every whim, Edith Moreland 

was supposed to be recovering from her illness. She had 
been greatly disturbed over the money matter. The more 
she thought of it, the more frequently she said to Junior: 

You know, as I have time to study about it, I see that 
Mahala couldn t possibly have taken that money, even 
though she couldn’t account for its disappearance. You 
see, if I had been calling there instead of being your wife, 
and if I had been arrested, I couldn’t have proved that I 
didn’t take it.” 

By unlimited and plausible lying, Junior managed to 
keep her reasonably satisfied. He kept her room filled 
with flowers. He gave her expensive pieces of jewellery. 
He spent the greater part of his time with her, but she 
only grew more irritable and felt worse. Junior could see 
that she really was ill and that, in spite of his best efforts, 
she was not regaining her health. He began to fear 
that she was thinking of Mahala and brooding over her 
when she was supposed to be talking and thinking of other 
things. 


375 


376 THE WHITE FLAG 

Junior had been distinctly surprised at himself concern¬ 
ing Edith. In a lit of angry disappointment at Mahala’s 
rejection and her scathing arraignment of him, he had 
naturally turned to the girl, who all her life had taken 
pains to let him see that she highly approved of him. His 
one thought had been, that since he could not have Mahala 
it made no difference whom he married. But in courting 
Mahala, the thought of marriage had strongly entered his 
mind, and the night of Commencement had shown him 
that Edith was a woman of distinctive beauty. He wor¬ 
shipped beauty almost as deeply as he worshipped money. 
From the books in the bank he had been able to gather a 
very agreeable estimate of Edith s fortune which was so 
considerable, that once convinced that Mahala would 
never marry him, Junior proved the reckless trait in his 
character by immediately marrying Edith. 

She was quite as handsome as he had thought her. He 
was surprised to find himself enjoying the demonstrations 
of affection that she lavished upon him. He was willing 
to wait upon her. His father and mother were consumed 
with wonder when they saw him fetching and carrying, but 
if they protested, Junior merely laughed at them and went 
on doing everything that Edith asked. 

One evening, to escape the constant chattering of 
women on the upstairs veranda, in whose talk Edith was 
not interested, she arose. She stepped into her room, 
and picking up a Persian shawl, threw it over her shoulders 
and walked the length of the veranda. At the corner of 
the building she turned down a side porch and made her 


THE EYES OF ELIZABETH 


377 

way past the windows of the other guests, pausing occa¬ 
sionally to look down to the grounds below. 

Seeing that she appeared ill and pale, a woman sitting 
before the French doors opening into her room, shoved 
a chair in Edith’s direction and asked if she did not wish to 
sit down and rest for a few minutes. 

“Thank you,” replied Edith, “you’re very kind. I, 
have been ill, but I am much better now.” 

She glanced at the woman, and seeing that her dress and 
manner indicated that she was not a babbling person who 
would tire her with senseless chatter, she took the chair 
and sitting down, leaned against the balcony railing and 
looked at the people moving through the grounds below. 
There were wide stretches of beautifully kept lawns, every 
kind of tree and shrub imaginable. There were fountains 
around which grew tropical water plants and in which 
goldfishes swam lazily. It was the first minute of quiet 
that Edith had experienced outside of her rooms. She 
enjoyed the night air. She watched big, velvet-winged 
moths fluttering toward the lights at the entrance to the 
grounds and to the building. A sense of peace and rest 
stole through her. The torment of doubt and uncertainty 
that had racked her ever since her marriage to Junior 
eased slightly. 

She had cared for him so intensely that she found her¬ 
self doing what he asked without stopping to look into his 
reasons, but after a few weeks of deliberation, she had 
reached the conclusion that while he was doing his best to 
be nice to her, to keep her pleased and happy, he did not 


378 THE WHITE FLAG 

love her and he never had. This had bred a bitterness in 
her heart surpassing anything she ever before had ex¬ 
perienced. Undoubtedly, it had been the cause of her 
illness. Her one hope had been that in time Junior would 
come to care for her as she knew he always had cared for 
Mahala. When the real breakdown came, and the mys¬ 
tery of the lost pocket book refused to be solved, Edith 
was tried to the breaking point. She could not eat,* she 
could not sleep; she could not keep from thinking, and 
occasionally in her thoughts there would be thrust into 
her consciousness ugly things that she always had heard 
said about the elder Moreland and Junior. 

Hour by hour, she kept reviewing her whole life in refer¬ 
ence to her relations with Mahala. With Junior she never 
had come in contact except through Mahala. She re¬ 
membered how she had stood with her programme ready 
Commencement night and he had not even asked her for 
one dance as he stood laughingly sprawling his name all 
over Mahala’s card. Even Henrick Schlotzensmelter had 
known that it was proper for each boy of the class to ask 
each girl for at least one dance. For a minute as she de¬ 
scended from the omnibus, Edith had thought that at 
last Junior had really seen her. His words had furnished 
her the spur that carried her through her first public ap¬ 
pearance triumphantly, when she had started with every 
expectation that she would fail and be forced to resort to 
her written speech. 

She had her hour of hope, but Junior had seen to it that 
it was promptly quenched; and then, in a short, time; he had 


THE EYES OF ELIZABETH 


379 


come to her urging the hasty marriage to which she had 
consented because she preferred whatever life might bring 
to her in his company to what it would bring without 
him. 

To-night she was realizing more keenly than usual that 
it might be going to bring her a very sorry scheme of things. 
Leaning upon the railing, she forgot the woman sitting a 
few yards away, as she sat staring down into the rapidly 
deepening shadows. 

Then her eyes widened. Her breath caught in a gasp. 
One hand crept up to her heart, as she leaned forward, 
peering down intently. She must be mistaken, yet cer¬ 
tainly a man passing through the shadows from the back 
of the building, accompanied by one of the maids, was 
Junior. Gazing earnestly to convince herself that she 
must be mistaken, she saw them pause and look around 
them to assure themselves that no one was watching. As 
the man turned, she saw for a certainty that he was Junior. 
With her lips parted and her eyes incredulous, she sat an 
instant watching him indulge in familiarities with the maid. 
She saw him give her money. She saw him take her in his 
arms and kiss her. 

Quite unconscious of what she was doing, possibly in 
order to make sure of what was really happening, Edith 
arose, leaning far over the balcony. As the maid started 
to go, Junior caught her back and kissed her repeatedly. 
A terrible cry broke from Edith’s lips. The hand upon 
which she was leaning, slipped. Head first she plunged 
over the railing and down to the stone walk far below. 


THE WHITE FLAG 


380 

At the sound of her voice, Junior looked up. The next 
instant he saw her plunging fall. He stopped a second, 
cautioning the maid to disappear. He was the first to 
reach Edith. He gathered her in his arms and carried her 
down the walk, offering the plausible explanation that in 
leaning over the railing to speak to him as he was passing 
below, she had lost her balance and fallen. 

He carried her to their room and physicians were sum¬ 
moned, but it was found that her neck was broken. So it 
was Junior’s task to take her back to Ashwater, lay her 
away with every outward sign of mourning and lavish 
expenditure, and ingratiate himself as deeply as possible 
with her relatives by a clever semblance of heart-broken 
grief. 

The morning after the funeral, Junior entered the presi¬ 
dent’s room of the bank and closing the door behind him, 
went to the table and sat down, facing his father. 

“Dad,” he said, “you’ve looked so ghastly ever since 
I’ve been home that I’ve come to put you out of your 
misery. Cheer up! Things are not as bad as they might 
be. In the first place, you will be rejoiced to know that 
I’ve got complete control of all of Edith’s finances. And 
in the second place, if I don’t mistake my guess, for once 
you will be even more rejoiced to know that what happened 
really and truly was an accident. I was downstairs. 
Edith did lose her balance and fall. There was a woman 
on the veranda with her near enough to see what happened 
and there were people on the veranda below when she came 
smashing down. I got to her first because I was coming 


THE EYES OF ELIZABETH 381 

that way and it wasn’t far. But it was an accident pure 
and simple.” 

Moreland Senior leaned back in his chair and breathed 
to the depth of his lungs. 

“Well, Junior,” he said. “I don’t know that I ever heard 
anything in all my life with which I was better pleased. I 
may, or I may not, have a few things I regret on my own 
soul, but I d hate to undertake the strain of carrying a 
burden like that concerning you. As a man grows older, 
he doesn’t sleep so well as he did when he had the cast-iron 
constitution of youth, and there are times when the night 
gets pretty bad if a man’s conscience is not altogether clean. 
Of course, I’m not intimating that I’ve got anybody’s 
blood on my hands, but in the wild, hot-headed days of 
youth I may have done two or three things and been 
through a few experiences that I’d hate to see measured 
out to you. I want you to have a good time and get all 
you can out of my money—which is really your money— 
but be slightly careful. See to it that you don’t get into 
anything that’ll raise the hair on your head about three 
o’clock in the morning twenty years from now.” 

Junior laughed. “Sure!” he said. “Don’t worry, 
Governor, Til be careful. I’ve never done anything so 
terrible and I’m not planning to do anything except go 
on with the work I’d started before I went away. Has 
anything come up concerning Mahala?” 

Mr. Moreland shook his head. 

“That’s one of the things, Junior,” he said, “that I’m 
not quite easy about. It was a big sum to disappear and I 


THE WHITE FLAG 


382 

was after the Spellmans and I didn’t hesitate to give it to 
them as hard as I could, but to tell you the plain truth, I 
haven’t an idea where that money went. I don’t know 
how it got out of the house, or whether it was out of the 
house. Are you sure you put that pocket book on the 
table when Edith told you to?” 

“I certainly am,” said Junior. “I went into the room, 
laid it beside her coat, and stepped back. You’ll remember 
that Mahala testified that it was there when she finished 
Edith’s hat and laid it with the things she was going to 
wear.” 

Mr. Moreland slowly nodded his head. 

“I remember,” he said. “That piece of testimony of 
hers is about the only alleviation I’ve got when Elizabeth 
Spellman looks at me too hard, at three in the morning. 
Sometimes I’m tempted to send to Chicago for a real 
detective and put him on the case. I find that there are 
things that I can do with impunity, and then there are 
some that I can’t. I’d rather see Mahala Spellman freed 
from that ugly charge against her than anything that 
could happen on earth right now. It’s beginning to react 
against us> pretty strongly, my boy.” 

“In the present circumstances,” said Junior, “so would 
I. But money is a material thing. The earth doesn’t 
open and swallow it up. It’s somewhere, and I cautioned 
you before I left to do the most thorough piece of searching 
of Mahala Spellman’s home that could possibly be done. I 
was sure you d find the money there. I don’t see yet how it 
happens that you didn’t.” 


THE EYES OF ELIZABETH 


383 

Mr. Moreland drew another deep breath. He picked 
up a letter in one hand and a letter opener in the other. 
Junior suddenly realized that his face was drawn and 
haggard and that the eyes that were lifted to him had 
a hunted look. 

“Well, it happens, no doubt, because it wasn’t there,” he 
said. “If it had been I’d have found it. I’ve worn my¬ 
self out searching our house and when I haven’t been at 
the job, your mother has. This thing has hurt her a great 
deal worse than it has either one of us. I strongly suspect, 
that among the old hens of this town, she’s likely getting 
hers. Since people have had time to think things over, I 
get a hint once in a while that the thing I cautioned you 
would happen is slowly happening. As people have time 
to calm down and to study things, there’s a kind of senti¬ 
ment growing that Mahala never could have taken that 
money. After all, she didn’t really need it. Jemima had 
furnished her shelter; she was honestly earning her daily 
bread, while that damned Rich dug up a forty-acre piece 
of land that doesn’t need anything but cultivation to make 
it as fine river bottom as you ever laid your eyes on. She 
knew about it before this thing happened. She wasn’t 
what you might call destitute or in extremes, and she had 
a kind of pride that made her meet the thing in a way that 
her mother couldn’t have done. I’ve got a notion in my 
head that Elizabeth Spellman would have been prouder 
of her girl if she’d laid down beside her and died with her, 
instead of putting on an apron and beginning to sew for a 
living.” 


THE WHITE FLAG 


384 

Junior arose and stood looking at his father. 

“No doubt you’re right, Dad,” he said quietly. “You 
most generally are. But since you didn’t have anything 
to do with this, since you are in no way to blame for it, 
don’t you think you’d better stop worrying about it? Let 
it go for what it’s w^orth.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Moreland, “my dear friends and my 
devoted neighbours are beginning to make me feel that I’m 
none too popular in this community. That little ape of a 
Spellman, feeling and flecking and scraping, could make 
himself a commanding and respected figure, and I thought 
I’d done it, but I’m none too sure that I have. I’m none 
too sure that it wouldn’t take only one more little slip on 
my part to have every dog in the county worrying at my 
throat. I understand that Albert Rich, Peter Potter, and 
Jason Peters, are pooling issues against us. They’re doing 
everything in their power to find some hook or crook by 
which they can clear Mahala, and if the thing happens, 

and happens to our discredit-” The Senior Moreland 

paused and drew fine lines down the side of a blotter with 
a sharp pencil. 

Junior stood waiting, studying him intently. At last 
the elder Moreland resumed: “If the thing happens, and 
happens to our discredit , I’m not any too sure that things 
won’t go pretty rough with us.” 

Junior laughed outright, but it wasn’t a hearty laugh, 
and not a mirthful one. 

“Don’t you think it!” he cried. “Don’t you think it!” 

Martin Moreland drew a line so deep that it cut through 



THE EYES OF ELIZABETH 3S5 

the blotter. “I don't think it," he said with a terse, cold 
incision that arrested Junior’s deepest attention. “I 
don't think it. I know it” 

Junior stiffened slightly and stood studying him. 

“There's just one thing that can save the situation," 
said the elder Moreland. “If you're ready to go to work, 
go to work now on the task of finding out where that pock¬ 
et book went. Find it in such a way that it will be a credit 
to us to have found it. Find it in such a way that it will 
turn public opinion in our favour. Give me the chance to 
be the leader in doing anything that could be done to rein¬ 
state Mahala." 

As he finished, Junior laughed again, this time more 
naturally. “That's something of a job that you've set 
for me, Pater," he said. “I haven't an idea in ten states 
where that pocket book is, but if that's the way you feel 
about it. I'll get on the job and see if I can resurrect it, or 
duplicate it, or do something. And in the meantime, is 
there anything you want me to do in connection with put¬ 
ting a small slice of the fear of God into the hearts of Albert 
Rich, and old Potter and Jason?" 

The Senior Moreland thought intently a few minutes 
and then he said quietly: “ Right there you had better stay 
your hand. They happen to be on the popular side right 
now. You had better just drop that and evade it, and get 
around it the best you can, and in the meantime, you had 
better spend some time and money on seeing how popular 
you can make yourself in this town right now." 

"All right," said Junior, “at least one of the jobs you've 


THE WHITE FLAG 


386 

set me is agreeable. I don't mind in the least seeing how 
popular I can make myself. As a matter of fact, I deeply 
enjoy it, and in about ten days V11 show you an altogether 
different atmosphere. It's evident to my young mind 
that this village has needed me, that I’m of importance on 
this job, and in the meantime, I think you had better take 
Mother and go on a vacation. If you’ll allow me to say 
so confidentially, you’re looking as if a keen blast of the 
wrath of Heaven had struck you.” 

Junior left the room. Martin Moreland went on deco¬ 
rating the blotter. No one kept any account of the length 
of time he spent or the intricacy of the designs that he 
drew. He heard the whistles blowing for noon before he 
arose and reached for his hat, and as he left the room he 
was saying softly to himself: “‘The wrath of Heaven/ 
I wonder what the wrath of Heaven can do to me?” 


CHAPTER XVII 

A Millstone and the Human Heart” 

D URING the days that Mahala lay approaching the 
| culmination of the final test as to whether her 
physical forces were strong enough to endure the 
ravages of the fever and leave her only sufficient strength 
to go on breathing, Jason worked frantically. For the 
first time in his life he found himself doing the thing that 
was popular. Every one was willing to help him. Car¬ 
penters would work over hours and on holidays; painters 
and paper hangers were equally accommodating. The 
neighbours on the farms surrounding Mahala’s forty acres 
came to his rescue. Without being asked, they mowed 
weeds, burned brush heaps, trimmed the orchard, and re¬ 
built tottering fences. They made a day of straighten- 
mg the leaning stable on its foundations and staying its 
framework, so that with new roof and sheathing, it would 
be a tenable building for many years to come. 

Jason superintended everything, but he confined his 
personal work to the house. While the men were nailing 
shingles and laying flooring, he was peeling off rotten 
plastering, tearing away broken lathing, working wherever 
he could lend a hand in most swiftly furthering the task 
he had undertaken. Every morning he stood at the foot 

387 


THE WHITE FLAG 


388 

of Mahala’s bed looking down at her a few moments before 
he went to work. All day her tortured face was the spur 
that drove him to accomplishments worthy of the best 
efforts of two men. Jemima kept assuring him that he 
need not be so terribly anxious. There would be a crisis, 
but she and Doctor Grayson and the nurse were watching 
for it; they would be prepared; they would save Mahala. 

But there came a day when Jason staggered into the 
little house wearing a ghastly face. He paid no attention 
to the food Jemima set out for him. He made his way to 
Mahala’s room, and clinging to the foot of the bed, he 
stood staring down at her, an agony of doubt, of fear, 
written over his face and figure. Finally, Jemima could 
endure it no longer. She put her arm around him and 
helped him from the room. He went out and sat down on 
the back steps, where Jemima followed him. 

“Don’t feel so badly, Jason/’ she said. “You’re work¬ 
ing so hard that your nerve is givin’ way. All of us feel 1 
that Mahala is holdin’ her own. She’s goin’ to come out 
of this. You needn’t be so afraid. We won’t let her die.” 

The face that Jason lifted to hers was so ghastly that 
Jemima never forgot it. 

“You haven’t stopped to consider,” he said, “that death 
might be the best thing that could happen to her.” 

“No, I haven’t,” said Jemima stoutly, “because I don’t 
think it. She’s young, and she’s strong, and she’s inno¬ 
cent.” 

Jason sat so still that it occurred to Jemima that he had 
stopped breathing; and then he said quietly: “One man 


“A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 389 


said she was innocent. Eleven say that she is guilty. That 
is a stain that is going to mark her the remainder of her 
life. Im not sure that life is the best thing for her.” 

“The only thing of which I’m sure,” said Jemima heart¬ 
ily, “is that you've worked to the breaking point, or you 
may have picked up this fever yourself. Doctor Grayson 
says people do get it from one another. Now you come 
and get some food, and go to bed and have a good sleep, 
and to-morrow you work just half as hard as you have to¬ 
day.” 

There were three anxious days at the time the fever ran 
its course, but Doctor Grayson was a skilled and a con¬ 
scientious physician and he was dealing with a condition 
that he had handled many times in his life when he did not 
have the vitality of youth to aid him. The thing that he 
would have to combat in Mahala's case would be her leth¬ 
argy, the indifference that he felt sure she would feel, when 
consciousness returned, as to whether she lived or died, and 
this proved to be the hardest battle that he had to fight. 
But she was young; she was physically strong. Jemima, 
the nurse, and Doctor Grayson never faltered in their un¬ 
wavering work and faith. The result was, that a week 
after the crisis, they were beginning to whisper of mysteri¬ 
ous things to Mahala. There was a journey that she was 
to make; there was a wonderful surprise in store for her; 
something delightful was going to happen. 

Because she was very weak, because she was desperately 
tired, because her heart had been as nearly broken as hu¬ 
man hearts ever come to that condition without ultimate 


390 


THE WHITE FLAG 


completion, Mahala f >und the easiest way was to listen, 
to accept what was being said. Several times she had 
sat in her chair by the window for an hour; her feet had 
touched the floor; she had stood upon them and performed 
a few wavering journeys around the room. 

Jemima had been dismantling and sending away every¬ 
thing in the house belonging to Mahala that she could 
spare. Her clothing was packed, and she was counting 
the days until the removal could be made, when there 
came to the faithful creature a telegram from her daughter- 
in-law, and this time the hand of fate had fallen heavily 
upon Jemima. In the prime of her son’s life, in the full 
tide of his strength, with his wife and a house full of small 
children depending upon him, a piston had burst in a piece 
of machinery upon which he had been working in the factory 
that employed him, and the remainder of Jemima’s life 
was taken out of her hands. She was asked to come and 
help to rear and to support seven children, all of them 
youngsters needing everything. She was asked to come 
immediately, so there was nothing to do but to tell Mahala 
that there was trouble in Jemima’s family; that she had 
been called, and to leave Mahala to the care of the nurse. 

So many things had happened to Mahala that one more 
did not matter. She wept a few weak tears of compassion 
for Jemima and pity for herself and went soundly to sleep 
at the hour of Jemima’s departure. The nurse was a 
kindly woman, a judicious woman, and for the remainder 
of her stay she found herself adhering very rigidly to the 
rules that Jemima had explained to her. Backed by 


“A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 391 


Jemima’s reasons, they seemed very good rules. People 
who had failed Mahala in her hour of tribulation might 
stay away and attend to their own affairs; they might 
learn the lesson very thoroughly that the friend in need 
is the one who is the friend in deed; and that if people 
were not friends in need, there was every likelihood that 
they never would be friends again in any conditions that 
might obtain. 

On the day that Jason announced that the house was 
ready, that he was very certain that he and the daughter 
of one of the neighbouring farmers who had been helping 
him to arrange the house, would be able to care for Ma¬ 
hala in the future, the nurse helped him to lay springs and 
a mattress in Peter Potter’s delivery wagon and make up 
a comfortable bed. With a smile on her pale lips and that 
brand of hopelessness in her heart which amounts to pas¬ 
sivity, Mahala walked between the nurse and Jason and 
was lifted to the bed. With closed eyes she lay quietly 
while she was driven through the streets of Ashwater, out 
country highways, and slowly down the River Road until 
they reached the house she once had visited. 

As they had driven along in the warming sunshine she 
had felt that it made small difference to her whether she 
lived or died. When she saw the transformation that had 
taken place in her house and land, there came to her with 
a distinct shock the feeling that it would be ungracious 
of her to die. There was an expectant look about the 
face of the waiting house. It proclaimed itself with dig¬ 
nity and pride; it was alluring to look at all fiesh paint 


392 


THE WHITE FLAG 


and lace-curtained windows. It was standing up straight 
upon its foundations. A veranda had been added across 
the front, and everything was a vision of peace and quiet 
beauty. It gave Mahala the feeling that she would not 
be doing the square thing not to live in it, not to love it, 
not to search for happiness there. 

Sitting on the veranda was an attractive young girl. 
When she saw the covered wagon coming, she arose and 
came down to the gate, swinging it open. She was a slip 
of a thing with light hair, wide-open questioning young 
eyes, and a provoking red mouth. She was quite tall for a 
girl, slender, and neatly dressed. There was the vivid pink 
of fresh air, an outdoor flush on her cheeks. 

Mahala looked at Jason: her lips formed the one word: 
“Who?” 

Jason answered: “Her name is Ellen Ford. She’s the 
daughter of your nearest neighbour. She’s taken a lot of 
interest while I was fixing up the place. She’s agreed to 
stay with you and take care of you until you feel well 
enough to manage by yourself. She’s a real nice girl with 
sufficient sense to keep her mouth shut. She thinks you 
wonderful and she’s crazy about having the chance to 
stay with you.” 

For a long time Mahala’s eyes looked intently down the 
road in front of her. The sight of the little house, almost 
buried in green, of the neatly fenced fields, and the thought 
of searching for happiness again had brought rushing back 
to her brain the one thought that, since her day of direst 
disaster, had persisted with her. Suddenly the big tears 


“A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 393 


began to brim from her eyes and slide down her cheeks. 
Then she lifted her head and looked into Jason's eyes. 

“Jason,” she cried, “you know that I never touched 
that money!” 

Jason put his arms around her and muttered words of 
comfort. He was telling her to be brave, to be calm, to 
think of nothing but that she was coming to her very own 
home, that for the remainder of her life, if she chose, she 
was to do nothing but tend her flowers and her garden and 
do whatever she pleased there. When they stopped, Jason 
lifted her bodily, carrying her across the veranda and into 
her room where he laid her on the bed upon which she had 
slept as a child. 

When she opened her tired eyes, she saw that the room 
was almost an exact reproduction of her old one. She 
swung her feet to the floor, and steadying herself by the 
furniture, made her way around the room in wonderment 
almost too great for words. At sight of her, the gold bird 
burst into song. She looked into the living room and she 
cried out in astonished delight when she saw upon the walls 
pictures that had belonged to her father and mother, 
the oil portrait of her mother hanging above the mantel 
—a whole room full of precious things that she had thought 
lost to her forever. There were several cases of the books 
they had loved like old friends waiting to greet her. She 
forgot her weakness. She voiced a cry of delight as she 
stood in the middle of the room gazing in an ecstasy at 
each precious thing she never had hoped to see again. 

She made her way to the door of the next room, and 


THE WHITE FLAG 


394 

there she found a guest chamber furnished with more of 
their home possessions, and another door led to the dining 
room—floor, side walls, furnishings—each object was 
familiar to her. Crossing it, she looked into the kitchen, 
furnished as were the other rooms, with her possessions. 
And there she saw Ellen Ford busy preparing supper for 
her. Through the back door she could see a roofed veran¬ 
da having chairs and a small table, and on back to the 
old orchard from which she could hear the humming 
wings of bees, and the voices of the bluebirds. She could 
see the stable with white chickens busy around it and a 
cow and a calf in the lot beside it. Her quick eyes took 
in the upper part of the stable where she judged, from the 
arrangement of windows, that Jason had made a room for 
himself while he worked. 

With the bravest effort at self-control of which she was 
capable, Mahala turned to Ellen Ford. “I want to thank 
you very much for your kindness in helping to make a 
home for me,” she said. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” answered the girl, busy over the 
stove. “We join land, you know, and we always try to 
do what we can for any of our neighbours.” 

And then, in an effort to be friendly, to cover an embar¬ 
rassing situation, she rattled a kettle lid and fussed with 
some things on the table as she remarked casually: “Of 
course, we’d expect you to do anything for us that I’ve 
tried to do here, in case we needed it.” 

Mahala looked at the girl quickly. She divined that 
the speech had been made to put her at ease, but she also 



“A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 


395 

divined something else. It was innocent, it was simple, 
it was honest. Here was some one who had faith in her, 
who had been willing to bolster that faith with works; 
some one who was proud to be with her, to help her till 
she should again be able to help herself. Before she 
thought what she was doing, she found herself standing 
face to face with Ellen Ford. She realized that her hands 
were reaching up to the shoulders of the girl, who was 
taller than she. She found herself crying out: “ You know, 
don’t you, that I never touched that money?” 

Instantly the stout young arms closed around her. 
Mahala felt herself drawn to Ellen Ford and a work- 
coarsened young hand was stroking her hair. “Why, of 
course you didn’t!” she said. “Every one with any sense 
knows you couldn’t!” 

Mahala turned suddenly and went back to her room 
where she was greeted with another gush of song from the 
throat of her bird. She was too weak to reach its cage. 
She dropped upon the side of the bed and sat staring 
through the window. When Ellen came presently, saying 
supper was ready, she went to the dining room and tried 
with all her might to force down her throat some of the 
very good food which the girl had deftly prepared. Then 
she sat for an hour in an arm chair on the veranda, looking 
at the flowers redeemed from the trespassing of over¬ 
running weeds, fertilized, and cultivated. How they 
would bloom in the spring, how well the bushes looked, 
and the trees; how rank the grass! By and by, the moon 
came up and the night was filled with the soft sounds of 


THE WHITE FLAG 


396 

fall. It was Jason who said to her: “I wish you would 
lie down now, Mahala. I think you're taxing yourself too 
far. You’ve got to take this slowly. In a few weeks 
you’ll be surprised at what the air, and the food, and the 
work that you will find, will do for you.” 

Mahala arose and went to him. She laid her hands 
upon his arm. “Jason,” she said in a shaking voice, “I 
had hopes about this land the minute I saw it. It will 
take all the rest of my life to tell you what a wonderful 
thing I think you have done in fixing up my house for me. 
I never, never can tell you what it means to me to have 
these things from my home back again. How does it 
happen?” 

“Don’t, Mahala,” said Jason, taking her arm and trying 
to guide her toward the door. “Don’t worry about these 
things now. Don’t try to talk. There’s a long time 
coming when you can tell me anything you want to.” 

Mahala stood looking up at him. 

“Jason, are you going back to Ashwater to-night?” she 
asked. 

“No,” answered Jason, “I’m only going to Ashwater 
when business takes me there. I’ve still got my interest 
with Peter. I am going to help him with his books. I’m 
paying a good man that I trained myself to take my place. 
After I got your house started enough that I knew what it 
would cost, I had sufficient money left to buy forty more 
acres joining yours, so I went into partnership with you. 
As soon as you’re able, you’re going to do the house work 
and I’m going to do the farm work, and we’re going 


“ A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 397 


to share and share alike. There’s nothing the matter with 
your land. All it needs is work. The cost of the improve¬ 
ments on the house I have charged to you; Til take that 
much out of your share. Now you go to bed and go to sleep. 
My room is over the carriage room in the stable, and 
Ellen’s going to stay all night with you as long as you 
want her.” 

Then Mahala found herself standing beside her bed. 
Slowly, she slipped down on her knees. She leaned for¬ 
ward; she tried to pray. But she found there was nothing 
that she wanted to say to God except to beg of Him to 
take care of Jason, to reward his thoughtfulness and his 
kindness. Then she put out the light, laid her head on 
her pillow, and in spite of herself, began an intensive re¬ 
view of the day. 

She recalled and dwelt upon each incident and suddenly, 
with the torture of memory, there came to her the thought 
that while Jason had overwhelmed her with kindness, had 
given her every assurance that she would be sheltered and 
cared for, he had not said the words that her heart had 
been hungering to hear him say. He had not gripped her 
hands tightly and looked straight into her eyes and said 
with the firmness of deliberate assurance: “Mahala, I 
know that you didn’t touch that money.” 

The thought shocked and startled her. She recalled 
that she had expected it. She wondered how he could 
have forgotten to give her the assurance that he must have 
known her heart would crave. She found herself sitting 
up in bed, looking through the window at the moon- 


THE WHITE FLAG 


398 

whitened world outside. The notes of a whippoorwill came 
sharply stressed through the night. Back in the orchard 
she could hear the wavering complainings of a hunting 
screech owl. She could hear the little creatures of night 
calling. With her hands gripped together and pressed 
hard against her heart, she heard her own voice repeating: 
“Oh, Jason, I didn’t! I didn’t!” Over and over she 
reached the moment of the question she had asked. Fi¬ 
nally, she was able to comfort herself with the kindness of 
the things that he had said, with the manifestations of 
the thoughtfulness and the planning and the work that he 
had done in her behalf. She succeeded in making herself 
believe that Jason was so sorry, and his mind so filled with 
what he had been doing, that he had merely neglected to 
speak the words her heart so longed to hear. 

She made a brave effort in the days that followed, to 
keep that thought from entering her mind. She was too 
proud to mention the matter again, but constantly she 
kept watching Jason. She found that she was waiting to 
hear him involuntarily say the words that she longed to 
hear. As she studied him and the situation, there came 
to her the realization that he was thinking for her, that 
he was planning for her, that he was working for her, but 
equally he was thinking, he was planning, he was working 
for himself. He was making the money that would insure 
her having a home again and freedom, but he was assum¬ 
ing nothing. Whatever he made, he divided equally. 
For the share of land that she furnished he was doing his 
equivalent in work. The division was fair enough. She 


“A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 399 


did not know, until Jason told her, that he always had loved 
the country, that it had been a boyhood hope to own and 
to work upon land, that he had only done the thing that 
he was glad in his heart to do when he had escaped from 
the grocery through the arrangement he had made, and 
found himself free to devote most of his time to the de¬ 
velopment and cultivation of land. He pointed out to 
her the extent of the land he had purchased adjoining her 
nearest neighbour, James Ford, the father of Ellen who 
was still helping her about the house and in the garden. 

Nothing could have given Mahala more comfort at that 
minute than the thought that Jason was not sacrificing 
himself; that he was doing the thing that he had hoped, 
and for a long time planned, to do; that he was happy 
with the wind in his hair and his feet in the freshly turned 
earth of a furrow. Watching him at his work, sometimes 
answering the chatter of Ellen, who was so full of the joy 
of living that she talked upon any occasion that she felt 
it proper that she might speak, milling these things over 
in her heart, there came to Mahala the realization that 
Ashwater stood to Jason Peters in some small degree in 
the same light as it now did to her. It had been a place 
where an unkind fate had bound him and he had suffered 
from taunt and from insult; he had suffered from unjust 
persecution; manhood had brought to him the power to 
fend for himself and the friend he needed in his hour of 
trial, but it had not taught him to love the place in which 
he lived or the people among whom he had endured humili¬ 
ation and suffering. 


400 


THE WHITE FLAG 


The first wave of gladness that she had known 
since her earliest calamity had befallen her, washed up 
in Mahala’s heart with a real comprehension of the fact 
that Jason was happy; that he wanted to live upon the 
land; that he enjoyed every foot of his environment. It 
pleased her when she discovered that he disliked that day 
upon which he was forced to go upon errands to Ashwater 
to repair implements or for food. 

When she had watched him until she thoroughly con¬ 
vinced herself of these things, one degree of the bitterness 
in Mahala’s heart was assuaged. Another thing that 
helped her on the road toward an approach to her normal 
condition was the attitude of Ellen Ford. Ellen was a 
charming girl. Mahala soon learned to love her. She 
was frank, unusually innocent. Mahala decided that her 
mother must have used a much greater degree of caution 
in speech before her daughter than she had understood was 
common with country women in general. Ellen came 
when she was wanted; with perfect cheerfulness went home 
when she was not. She chattered on every other subject 
on earth, but she never evinced the slightest curiosity 
concerning Mahala or what the future might have in store 
for her. If the task Mahala laid out for herself was so 
heavy she could not finish it, Jason went down the road 
and told Ellen. The girl came singing, did what was 
wanted efficiently, begged the privilege of brushing Ma- 
hala’s hair or doing any possible personal service for her, 
and went back singing, Mahala thought, as spontaneously 
as the bluebirds and the fat robins of the garden and the 


“A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 401 


orchard. For these reasons, Mahala found her heart run¬ 
ning out to her; found herself praising her and loving her; 
listening for her song and her footstep; wishing that she 
might do for her some pleasing service in return for the 
many kind and practical things that Ellen could think 
of to do for her. 

Imperceptibly each day, but surely in a total of days, 
Mahala’s strength began to return, and with it came a high 
tide in her beauty. Washed in rain water and dried in the 
sun, the golden life came back to her hair; an adorable pink 
flush into her cheeks; a deeper red than they ever had 
known stained her lips. The one place that the mark 
remained was in the depths of her eyes. In them dwelt 
a dread question, a pain that never left them. Looking 
deep into them at times, Jason felt that the one thing 
for which he could thank God was that he did not there 
find any semblance of fear. The horror that had hovered 
over his boyhood from a gnawing stomach, a beaten body, 
and a tormented brain, had left him in such a condition 
that at times he acknowledged a sickening surge of pure 
fear sweeping through him. Whenever this happened, 
he set himself to master it, to prove that he was not afraid. 
There had been a few times in his life when the obsession 
was heaviest upon him, that he had deliberately put him¬ 
self in Martin Moreland's presence, in order to prove to 
himself that he could stand, in those days, at the height 
of the banker with his shoulders squared and his eyes able 
to meet those of any man straightly. He never had been 
afraid of Junior physically since the first day in which he 


THE WHITE FLAG 


402 

had tested the high tide of his youth upon him. Knowing 
what Junior had been able to do to him, feeling in the 
depths of his heart that the troubles that had fallen upon 
Mahala were of Junior’s devising, would breed and keep in 
Jason a nauseating nerve strain springing from mental 
suffering, so strong that it caused physical reaction. 

Mahala spent much of her time in the house. She ex¬ 
perienced such joy as she never had hoped for again merely 
in walking over the carpets, in touching the curtains, in 
handling the linens, the books, the needle work, and the 
silver that had been her father’s and her mother’s. By im¬ 
perceptible degrees she had altered Jason’s arrangement 
of the house until the place became a reproduction of the 
delicate colour, of alluring invitation, of nerve-soothing 
rest that she had homed among during her childhood. 
When she could find nothing further to prettify inside her 
house—the little house that was truly hers—she walked 
around it lavishing love upon the flowers and the bushes, 
the trees and the shrubs. She spent a great deal of time 
on her knees before the boxed bed running around the 
house, loosening and fertilizing the soil, picking out the 
sly weeds that tried to find a home under the shelter of 
the star flowers and the daffodils and the iris. She loved 
every foot of the old garden. On her writing desk there 
were catalogues from which she was selecting the seeds 
and bulbs she meant to order for fall planting so that the 
coming summer her garden should once more spread its 
tapestry of colour and wave its banners of beauty on the 


air. 



“A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 403 

She liked to cross the corner of the orchard and feed 
the chickens and the white pigeons that shared the barn 
loft with Jason. She liked to pet the calf and make friends 
with the cow. With the assistance of Ellen, and under 
the advice of Mrs. Ford, remembering what she could of 
Jemima’s methods and following the instructions of several 
cook books, she began to prepare meals for Jason and her¬ 
self which were nourishing and sustaining, and at the same 
time, appetizing and attractive. It was several months 
before the morning dawned upon which Mahala realized 
that the full tide of health was flowing in her veins; that 
strength had come back to her; that when she sent for 
Ellen, most frequently she was doing it because she wanted 
company, for the day had not yet arrived when Mahala 
would face Ashwater. 

There was no one there whom she cared to see; nothing 
there that she cared to do. A written slip naming her 
necessities went in Jason’s pocket on his trips to town on 
business connected with the grocery or conveniences neces¬ 
sary for his farm work. She found, after a few months of 
experience of living with the woman who w T as herself, that 
a mark had been set upon her, literally burned into her 
brain, her heart, and her soul,—a mark that never could 
be effaced. The other doors and windows of the house 
stood wide open. The front door was always closed, al¬ 
ways locked. She found, too, that if, while she sat by an 
open window sewing or under the trees of the dooryard, 
she heard the rattle of wheels and saw a face she recognized, 
she arose and on winged feet put herself out of hearing in 



404 


THE WHITE FLAG 


case any one should knock upon her door, so that she 
would not be forced to open it and face them. 

There were times when she deliberately tried to de¬ 
termine what she thought and felt concerning Jason, but 
her brain was still in such tumult that she could not be 
definite even with herself. Life had narrowed her proposi¬ 
tion to the one fact that he was everything that she had 
left of her old life. She could not look at any beloved 
possession that had belonged to her father and her mother 
without the knowledge that, save for him, she would have 
been denied even this poor consolation from life. She 
could not move through the small home that in her heart 
she soon grew almost to worship without the knowledge 
that she owed to him her joy in having it to live in so soon. 
As she tried to think things out, it appealed to Mahala that 
the time had passed in which she could spend even a 
thought on remembering the days of his youth. She her* 
self had been stripped to the bone. She had lost every¬ 
thing but her respect for herself. Every material comfort 
she had, she owed to him. Slowly in her heart there began 
to take form the decision that whatever there was of her 
personality, of her life, belonged to Jason if he wanted it. 
If there was any way in which he cared to use it, it was for 
him to say what he desired. 

During the winter Mahala found herself living passively. 
She found that she was allowing each day to provide its 
duties, and on land she learned that they were many. 
Whatever there was to do, she went about casually and 
determinedly. Slowly, through absorption in her work, 


“A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 405 


through contact with the growing and the rejuvenating 
processes of nature, through the healing power of spon¬ 
taneous life around her, the shadow began to lift. One 
day she stopped short in crossing the kitchen with a pan 
of odorous golden biscuit fresh from the oven in her hands, 
stunned by the realization that she was hearing her own 
voice lifted in a little murmuring song. There had been 
days in Mahala’s life when she never expected that song 
could ever again return to her lips. After a while, she 
realized that she was laughing with Jason over things that 
occurred when he came in ravenous from work to food oi 
her preparing. She found herself talking happy, nonsen¬ 
sical things to the calf and the chickens that she was feed¬ 
ing, and she had trained the pigeons until they came 
circling around her, settling over her head and shoulders 
like a white cloud when she entered the barnyard with her 
feed basket. 

So spring came again. 

To repay Ellen Ford for the many things that she had 
done for her for which she had refused to accept payment 
in money, Mahala had selected, from samples she had 
Jason bring her, a piece of attractive pink calico and a blue 
gingham and a finer piece of dainty white goods. From 
these she fashioned attractive dresses for Ellen. The 
white one she made foamy with lace and feathery with 
ruffles. Ellen was delighted. She made bold to throw her 
arms around Mahala and kiss her repeatedly in an effort 
to express her thankfulness for this gift. But when the 
Ford carriage passed the house on Sunday morning, taking 


THE WHITE FLAG 


406 

the family to church, Mahala was surprised to see that 
Ellen was wearing the pink dress instead of the white one. 

As she served Jason’s plate at dinner that day she said 
to him: “I thought Ellen would wear the white dress I 
made for her to-day, but I noticed as they passed that 
she wore the pink one.” 

And Jason answered: “Perhaps she’s saving the white 
one for some very special occasion.” 

“I suspect that is it,” said Mahala. “Maybe there’s 
going to be a picnic or a party.” 

A few days later, sitting on her front steps in the soft 
air of evening, Mahala saw Ellen slowly coming down 
the road in her direction, and then she saw Jason coming 
from one of his fields carrying a hoe over his shoulder. 
His lithe leap carried him over the fence as Ellen was 
passing. She saw them stop and begin talking, and then 
she saw Jason lean his hoe in the fence corner, turn, and 
slowly walk back down the road with Ellen. He stood for 
a long time at her gate talking with her before he came 
back, picked up his hoe, and came on to the house. 

For a long time Mahala sat thinking. Then she got 
up and went to her room. She shut the door, and light¬ 
ing a lamp, stood before her mirror and looked intently 
at the reflection of her face. It was a very white face 
that she saw and it was gazing at her with wide, question¬ 
ing eyes. Then slowly she undressed and went to bed 
without saying good-night to Jason. 

For a few days Mahala went about her work in a sort 
of stupefied fashion. Sometimes she lifted her head and 


"A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 407 


ran her hands over her face as if it were a numb thing that 
needed, in some way, to be galvanized into expression by 
an outside agency. And then, a few days later, there were 
steps on the veranda, the door opened, and Jason and 
Ellen Ford came in together. Ellen’s face was flushed, her 
eyes were dancing, and her red lips were laughing. The 
white dress was clothing her beautifully. 

In a voice that was steady but slightly husky, Jason said: 
“Mahala, Ellen is my wife. We were married an hour 
ago. I am glad that you’ve learned already to love her.” 

There is large advantage in having been born a thor¬ 
oughbred. Mahala kissed Ellen’s pink cheeks. She 
patted down a white ruffle that was not quite in place. 
She said very quietly: “Indeed I have learned to love 
Ellen.” 

She offered Jason a steady hand and hearty congratula¬ 
tions, and then she sat down and said evenly: “Now tell 
me about your plans.” 

Their plans were extremely simple. Ellen’s people 
were selling their farm and moving away. Jason meant 
to buy what he needed of their furniture and set up house¬ 
keeping in the home the Fords were abandoning. He told 
Mahala that the reason he had set up the bell in her back 
yard a few days before and stretched a cord to her room 
was so that she might ring any time during the day or 
night when she wanted either of them. One ring should 
be for him, two for Ellen. There was to be no change in 
anything except that Jason would not take his meals with 
her and instead of sleeping over the stable, he would be 


408 < THE WHITE FLAG 

across the road and a few yards farther away. Otherwise 
they were expecting life to go on exactly as it always had. 

Then Ellen kissed Mahala repeatedly, and with an 
arm around Jason’s waist and his hand on her shoulder, 
they went down the road together. Mahala fled to her 
room and locked the door behind her, without realizing 
that there was no one against whom she need lock it. 
Once more she faced herself in her truthful mirror. 

“Exactly the same,” she said at last, “exactly the 
same.” And then she cried out at her reflection: “Fool! 
Fool! You big fool! You’ve worried your brain, you’ve 
lain awake nights, trying to figure out whether Jason was 
good enough for you. He’s settled your problem by let¬ 
ting you see that you’re not good enough for him. Fool! 
Fool! You big fool!” 

Her eyes turned inward and backward. Wildly she 
tried to understand how this thing could have happened. 
Then, suddenly, realization came to her. Her face was 
dead white, her lips stiff* when she announced the ultima¬ 
tum: “The reason he didn’t say anything the day we got 
here was because he thinks I took it. He thinks I’m a 
thief. He wouldn’t make me the mother of his children 
because in his heart he believes I’m guilty.” 

Then Mahala dropped over in merciful unconsciousness. 
Far in the night, a heavy moon ray, falling persistently 
on her face, aroused her. She drew herself up on her bed 
and lay as she was till she heard Jason’s step on the back 
porch the next morning. Then she forced herself to her 
feet, unlocked the door, and went out to meet the day as 


“ A MILLSTONE AND THE HUMAN HEART” 409 

if it were going to be exactly like any other day that had 
passed before it. 

In the days that followed, Mahala learned that the ex¬ 
tent to which the human heart can be tortured is practi¬ 
cally without any limit. One may suffer and suffer for 
years, only to discover that there are still unplumbed 
depths of pain and degradation to which one may be 
forced. In these days she really was a primitive creature, 
stripped to the bone. She was seeing herself now, not as 
she always had seen herself, but as other people were seeing 
her, and slowly there was beginning to rise in her heart the 
feeling that if some one did not do something to reestablish 
her before the world and in her own self-respect, she would 
be forced to do it herself. With every ounce of strength 
she had, she fought herself to keep Jason and Ellen from 
seeing that she was suffering, that once more the power to 
see beauty had left her eyes. Her ears no longer heard 
song; hourly they were tortured by the sound of her own 
voice muttering in dazed amazement: “He thinks I’m 
guilty!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 
A Triumph in Millinery 

J UST at the time when Nancy Bodkin felt that life 
might be taking on a happier aspect for Marcia, she 
heard the slam of the screen door and looking from 
her work down the long aisle of the store, she saw coming 
toward her what she thought was the handsomest man that 
she ever had seen. In her hasty summary she could note 
that he was tall, that he was dark, that he was tastefully 
and expensively clothed. Her eyes raced about the room 
searching for Marcia who was standing before a case in 
which she was arranging some finished hats. She saw 
Marcia start and cast a glance in her direction. She saw 
her hesitate before she moved forward to meet the stranger. 
Nancy laid down her work, crossed her hands on it, and sat 
watching intently. She saw the young man take an enve¬ 
lope from his pocket and with a few polite sentences he 
drew therefrom some old yellowed papers which he showed 
to Marcia but did not give into her keeping. She saw 
him hand Marcia some clean, new papers, and with a bow 
of exaggerated deference, she saw him turn and leave the 
store. She watched Marcia follow him, close the door and 
turn the key in the lock. It was mid-day; customers 
might come at any minute. In a daze she watched 

410 


A TRIUMPH IN MILLINERY 


411 

Marcia with a ghastly face come the length of the store 
toward her and draw the curtains behind her. She felt the 
papers thrust into her hands. Then she realized that 
Marcia was on her knees; she felt the weight of her head 
in her lap, the clinging grip of her arms around her. 

The little milliner slowly straightened. She never had 
felt quite so important, quite so confident, quite so worth 
while in all her life. Suddenly, to herself she became a 
rock upon which a craft was being splintered. The hand 
she laid on Marcia’s bent head was perfectly firm. 

“Now you buck up,” she said authoritatively. “You 
must. I don’t know what this means till I’ve had time to 
look and to hear, but I can make a fairly good guess. 
Whatever it is, I can tell you without either looking or 
hearing that we’re going to fight.” 

Marcia sat back on the floor. She exposed a pitiful face. 

“Fight!” she cried passionately. “Fight? It’s all 
very well for the innocent to fight, but how can the guilty 
wage battle?” 

Nancy looked at the woman she loved—her efficient 
partner, the being upon whom she had come to depend 
for hope and help and human companionship when stiff 
bones and gray days and a sordid stomach and nerves 
that pulled and muscles that twitched were upon her. 
With a gesture that was truly regal, she shook open the 
papers and carefully went through them. Then she 
looked at the formidable sum total at the botton . It 
would practically wipe out the savings of six yeais for 
Marcia and cut heavily into her own. 


412 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“Do you owe this?” she asked tersely. 

Marcia shook her head. 

“They’re vultures,” she said. “They prey equally on 
the quick and the dead.” 

Nancy stared at Marcia. The thumb and first finger of 
her right hand were busy working her lower lip into folds. 

“Marcia,” she said softly, “you’ve never told me any¬ 
thing, and I’ve never asked; but now we’re at the place 
where I must know. So tell me. Were you the mother of 
a child born of Martin Moreland?” 

Marcia promptly and emphatically shook her head. 

“But there was a child?” insisted Nancy. 

Marcia nodded. “Yes,” she said, “there was a child, 
but I was not his mother. Martin Moreland brought him 
to me when he couldn’t have been more than a few hours 
old.” 

“Check!” cried the little milliner in tones of triumph. 
Then she sprang up. She lifted Marcia to her feet. She 
kissed her and smoothed her hair. She shoved back the 
curtains, unlocked the front door and set it wide. Then 
she returned to her work table, pushed aside the soft 
feathers and the gay flowers, and taking a big sheet of 
paper and a tall pencil, she sat down and began asking 
Marcia searching questions and recording the answers. 
Inside of an hour she had completed a considerable bill 
for nursing Jason in infancy, caring for him for sixteen 
years, washing, mending, nursing, and boarding him. 

When she had finished, she went over her work to verify 
it, and then she looked up at Marcia and said: “Now, 


A TRIUMPH IN MILLINERY 


4 i 3 


then, let the Morelands come on! Let them undertake to 
collect a bill for the rent of that house for sixteen years! 
Unless I’ve lost all my art at figuring, I’ve got this bill 
strictly within reason and nearly three times the amount 
of theirs, which will allow it to be lopped considerably and 
still make you some profit.” 

Marcia picked up the sheet and studied it, but her hands 
shook so that she was forced to lay it upon the table and 
sit down in order to go over it accurately. 

“It is all right,” she said. “I haven’t a doubt but that 
in law it will hold, but it spells ruin. I can’t go into court 
with this thing and come out of it unscathed. It means 
that while I may make him pay it, I must turn over to 
you my share of the business; I must leave the only home 
and the people I know, and the only one on earth who loves 
me, and go somewhere else and start all over again among 
strangers.” 

Then Marcia began to cry, terrible sobs that racked 
and shook her. Again she stretched out helpless hands 
and again Nancy stood rock bound. 

“Now stop!” she said firmly. “Stop it! We haven’t 
got anything to do but send this to Martin Moreland. We 
must make him think that it was sent by a lawyer. We’ve 
got to let him know that we’re able to fight, that we will 
fight. But you can bank on one thing that’s certain and 
sure. He isn’t going to explain to the public to whom the 
child he brought for your care, belonged. He isn’t going 
to want the other deacons of the Presbyterian Church 
and the directors of the bank and the county officials to 


4*4 


THE WHITE FLAG 


know where he got the boy he forced you to take care of. 
Certainly he isn't going to want to face the question, 
‘Who’s his mother?’ You needn’t be the least bit afraid. 
Never in the world will he let that happen. He’s just what 
you said he was—a vulture. He doesn’t care whether the 
meat he lives on is fresh or rotten. He can thrive on 
either kind equally well.” 

Marcia sat a long time gazing into the kitchen. It was 
a strange thing that she could draw comfort from a cook 
stove and pots and pans. They are not particularly at¬ 
tractive to many people, but they were attractive to 
Marcia. There are souls in this world so stranded that 
they are fortunate if they have an animal upon which to 
lavish their affections; and there are others whose lives 
are so bleak that they must love mere things—the bed on 
which they sleep, the chairs on which they sit, the pots and 
pans in which they cook the food that they eat. And 
then, pots and pans are a symbol. They do not mean 
beauty, but they mean utility. They suggest nourishment, 
strength, and sustenance. They spell home, and home 
means sheltering walls and sometimes it means love. It 
meant love to Marcia. As she looked up at Nancy, still in 
her rock-bound attitude, she saw upon her face a thing that 
swept a wave of emotion through Marcia’s sick soul such as 
it never before had known. She was not going to be forced 
to give up the accumulations of years against comfort for 
age and illness. That meant something. But it did not 
mean the highest thing. She was still young and strong. 
She knew that there were several ways in which she could 


A TRIUMPH IN MILLINERY 


4i5 


assure bodily comfort. The thing of which she got assur¬ 
ance in that hour was the greatest thing in all this world. 
It was the assurance that the little milliner would stand by, 
that she was not going to desert a sinking ship. Whatever 
happened, her friendship was going to weather; whatever 
storm broke on her friend, she was going to be the anchor 
that would hold. 

In that hour Marcia deliberately went down on her 
knees again. She put her arms around the waist of Nancy, 
she met her eyes frankly, and she purged her soul. Torn 
beyond control when she had finished the last word of self- 
condemnation she had to utter, when the last scalding tear 
she had to shed had burned its way down her cheeks, she 
pulled open the dress she was wearing, exposing her firm 
white breast to her friend. Her own eyes were upon it. 

“Look,” she said, “it looks soft and white, doesn’t it, 
but the dreadful scarlet brand has scorched for years; it’s 
burning there now. It always will. I can see that for 
your sake, for the sake of the business, I must go on hiding 
it until I die. Personally, it would be almost a relief to 
stand up outside our door or before the altar in the church, 
and tell every one what I have told you.” 

Nancy Bodkin was doing some crying for herself at that 
minute, but presently she wiped her eyes and surprised 
even herself with the joy of her inspiration. 

“That isn’t necessary,” she said. “It wouldn’t help 
in any way. The thing you must do is to go to God. Tell 
Him what you have told me. Ask His help. Your sin is 
against God. He will forgive a woman whose greatest 


THE WHITE FLAG 


416 

fault is that she loved the wrong man; that she loved a 
man who betrayed her and used her for his purposes when 
he should have sheltered her and sustained her. God is 
great and He is merciful.” 

Nancy helped Marcia to her feet. She led her to the 
door of her room, and opening it, she shoved her through. 
“Go and make your peace with God,” she said. “I have 
nothing to forgive you. If He has, He will know about it 
and He will let you feel His forgiveness and His love.” 

She shut the door, and going back to her work table, she 
sat down, and with steady hands, she sheared, twisted, and 
sewed, and by and by, when Marcia came from her room 
with peace in her heart and less pain in her eyes, the little 
milliner almost paralysed her. She held up a thing that 
was really a creation and she cried gayly: “Go wash and 
powder your nose and get ready to try this! I believe it’s 
the damnedest best-looking hat that Eve ever madel” 


CHAPTER XIX 

Rebecca Pronounces Judgment 

T HE seasons run with swift feet. It was in Febru¬ 
ary that Mahala answered a hasty knock at her 
door. She jumped into her coat and overshoes and 
hurried down the road through the snow and the storm of 
a wild night on the shaking arm of Jason. She could see 
that the house to which she was going was filled with light. 
When she entered it, she found Ellen's mother in charge 
and Doctor Grayson at work. An hour later, through one 
of those queer turns of fate which no one can explain, it 
became her part of the thing that was taking place there 
to carry a small, warm bundle, strongly suggestive of olive 
oil and castile, and lay it in the arms of Jason. 

It seemed to Mahala as she carried Jason his son that 
the bitterness which at that minute surged up in her heart 
surpassed anything else she ever had known. She turned 
from him and went to lay her hand on the head of Ellen. 
There it was her mission to report that Jason thought his 
son was fine and wonderful. 

By noon the next day she was back in her home. 
Everything had been done that was necessary. Ellen's 
mother and Jason could care for her. There was no reason 

why Mahala might not go back to her little house and 

417 


THE WHITE FLAG 


418 

again take up her life with her dead. Because that was 
what Mahala was doing in those days. She was living 
hourly with her father. At first it had been difficult to 
vision him in the country house, but now she could see him 
before the bookcase, at the hearth, in the dining room. 
Sometimes she dreamed of him, and with the awful reality 
of dreams, she again heard his voice, her nostrils were filled 
with the personal odours of his body, every familiar ges¬ 
ture was before her eyes. 

Her mother came there, too. Hourly now she stepped 
down from the frame above the mantel and walked through 
the rooms, twitching a curtain into place, setting a picture 
at a different angle, drawing a finger across a polished 
surface to make sure that no particle of dust had settled 
there. 

In those days when winter was the coldest and the 
storms raged outside, and the amount of physical exercise 
required to keep her in good health was difficult to obtain, 
Mahala paced the rooms of the little house, and beside her 
walked another of her dead. Jason was there—thought¬ 
ful, kind, always taking care of her, always watching that 
she should be sheltered, that she should be comfortable— 
but he was a dead Jason. There was no life in him. The 
living part of him belonged to Ellen. The mouthing little 
pink bundle lying on Ellen’s breast very shortly would be 
on his feet, holding Jason’s hands, making demands of 
him. 

The one thing for which Mahala tried to be thankful in 
those days was the steady round of duties entailed by 



REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 419 

living. After Mrs. Ford had gone home, there were days ( 
when Ellen was feeling badly and the baby cried, that 
Mahala went down to Jason’s home, and with light step 
and skilful fingers, straightened out problems that were 
too much for Ellen, taught her patience and forbearance 
and the love that ministers, that expends itself and de¬ 
mands little. Then she went back to her house and during 
the long nights she deliberately turned her pillow where 
she could look through the window at the storm-whipped 
arms of the old orchard and watch the elements having 
their way with the world, rolling on its age-old route around 
its orbit. 

In these days Mahala found that, in her own home, 
life had simmered to the asking of one question. She did 
not ask it of God. She had stopped praying when she had 
been overwhelmed. She asked it of her mental vision of 
her father: “Why?” She faced the skilfully painted por¬ 
trait of her mother, and with stiff lips cried to her: 
“Why?” She asked the walls of each room in the house. 
She asked the authors of the books she tried to read. She 
looked from the windows and asked the winds raging past. 
She asked the moon of night and the first red rays of 
morning. “Why?” Eternally, “Why?” 

When spring had come again and all the world was 
busy with the old miracle of rejuvenation, when the apple 
orchard was sweetest and the lilacs were a benediction 
and the star flowers were shining, when the doors were 
opened and Nature was trying with all her might to reju¬ 
venate the hearts of men as easily as she pushed welling 


420 


THE WHITE FLAG 


sap into bud and bloom, one day when Mahala’s lips had 
cried “Why?” to the white pigeons and the bluebirds of 
the orchard, her question was answered. 

A livery conveyance from the village stopped at her 
door, and in wonderment she watched Albert Rich and 
the town sheriff, the Presbyterian minister and dear old 
Doctor Grayson alight from it. She took one swift look at 
the party as they were coming through the gate, and then, 
without stopping for thought, she flew to the back door 
and gave the bell one violent spang. A pause, and then 
another. It was her pre-arranged call for Jason to come 
with all speed. 

Hearing, Jason said to Ellen: “Something has gone 
wrong with Mahala. She never rang like that before. I 
must go.” 

He dropped a rake that he was mending at the back 
door, raced across the yard, sprang over the fence, crossed 
the road, and leaping another fence, took a short cut 
toward Mahala s back door. As he ran, he could see the 
carriage, he could see the men going up the walk and cross¬ 
ing the poich, and without knowing why, a sick appre¬ 
hension sprang in his heart. 

He entered the back door and came through the kitchen. 
He reached the door of the living room as Mahala was 
offering her guests seats. His first glance was for her. He 
saw that her face lacked all natural colour and he noticed 
that she was perfectly controlled, that she was greeting 
her guests with the graciousness of the lady she had been 
born to be. 


REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 421 

As she returned from laying aside their hats, Albert 
Rich went to meet her. He deliberately put his arm 
around her. Then he said: “Mahala, dear, Rebecca 
Sampson made trouble in the bank to-day. She may 
have slipped or they may have been rough in putting her 
out, at any rate, she fell and struck her head a severe blow. 
She’s now lying on the couch in the directors’ room and 
every one agrees that she’s quite sane. Her first con¬ 
scious words were to ask if you found the money that 
Junior Moreland told her to take from their parlour table 
and hide in your house for you when no one would see her.” 

“Here? Does she say that she put it here?” cried 
Mahala. Both hands were gripping her heart. She had 
seemed to shrink, to grow into a helpless, childish thing. 
The tremors that shook her body were visible through her 
clothing. 

The men were eager in their acquiescence. 

“She says,” answered the sheriff, “that she put it 
through a hole in the plaster on the right-hand side of 
the front door. You’re vindicated, Mahala, beyond a 
doubt in the mind of any one, but it would be better, it 
would be fine, if we could discover that pocket book.” 

Jason stood straight in the doorway. His eyes were 
travelling from the face of one man to another, but they 
avoided Mahala. Slowly his form tensed, his breathing 
began to come in short gasps. Albert Rich turned to 
him. 

“Jason,” he said, “get an axe. I’m going to break 
through the wall on the right-hand side of the front door 


422 THE WHITE FLAG 

and search the place where Becky says she put that pocket 
book.” 

Slowly Jason shook his head. His lips were very stiff, 
but he managed to speak. 

“There’ s no use/’ he said. “You’ll find nothing there. 
I mended that lath and plastered that broken place with 
my own hands.” 

Suddenly Mahala’s head fell forward, and then she 
lifted it, and as people have done since the beginning of 
the world in the ultimate agony, she called on God. Her 
voice was torn and pitiful past endurance. She was call¬ 
ing on God, but she was reaching to Jason, stretching out 
her hands to him. 

“Oh, God!” she cried. “Help me! Won’t you please 
help me? Why couldn’t it have been there? Why 
couldn’t vindication have been complete? Oh, God, 
won’t you help me?” 

Big tears rolled down her cheeks. 

She cried directly to Jason: “Oh, Jason! think! Think 
hard! Can’t you think of any place that it might be?” 

She appealed to Doctor Grayson: “You’re sure Becky 
says she brought it here?” 

“Yes,” said Doctor Grayson, “she says you gave her 
food here, you told her that this was the only home you 
had, that this was your house.” 

Mahala slowly nodded her head. 

“I did,’ she said. “I told her that this was the only 
home I had left.” 

Again she turned to Jason. “Oh, Jason!” she cried. 


REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 423 

“Do this much more for me! Find it! Oh, find that 
pocket book!” 

Jason’s face was that of a man in fierce physical torture. 
With one hand he was tearing at the neck of his shirt, try¬ 
ing to pull it open. Suddenly the attention of the entire 
party centred on him; it became patent to every one that 
he was on the rack. For a long second he hesitated, star¬ 
ing with wide eyes of anguish at Mahala, then slowly he 
ran a hand into his pocket. He drew from it a heavy 
pruning knife. He stepped across the room and lifted from 
its fastening above the fireplace the oil portrait of Eliza¬ 
beth Spellman. Setting it to one side, he ran his fingers 
over the papered wall behind it, feeling for something. 
When he found it, he inserted the knife, and ran it around 
a small space that had been papered over. Prying off a 
light wooden cover, he stepped back. In the opening 
where a couple of bricks had been removed, lay a long, 
black bill book. 

For one instant a wild light of rejoicing leaped into 
Mahala’s eyes, and then a sick horror overwhelmed her as 
she looked at Jason. She opened her lips, but no words 
came. Suddenly she stepped back; both her hands 
clutched her heart tightly. Unable to endure her gaze 
further, Jason made a gesture toward the opening. His 
head fell forward on his breast, and, turning, he staggered 
from the room. 

Mahala recovered herself only with the utmost effort. 
She stretched one hand toward the sheriff, but her eyes 
were upon the minister. 


424 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Her voice said: “You are the executor of the law. 
My hands never have touched that pocket book. They 
never shall. Lift it down, and in the presence of these 
witnesses, open it. 7 ’ 

The sheriff obeyed her. He spread the money, the rail¬ 
road tickets, and the contents of the pocket book upon the 
table. The minister, at the call of Mahala’s eyes, went 
to her. He put his arm around her and drew her shivering 
little body to him with his strength. Looking into her 
eyes, he said: “Tell us, Mahala, why did Junior Moreland 
want to ruin you ? ” 

Mahala drew a deep breath that steadied her. “You 
must ask him,” she said, never so true to her best in¬ 
stincts as in that hour. 

Albert Rich came to her other side and took hold of her 
also, because he was human and his heart ached intoler¬ 
ably. Across her, he said to the minister: “Ask me. 
They were classmates from childhood. She watched the 
development of his character, day by day. Fashioned as 
God made her, she could do nothing but loathe him. Re¬ 
peatedly she refused to marry him. This is her punish¬ 
ment. This is a new demonstration to Ashwater of the 
power of riches directed by the Morelands/’ 

Mahala thrust her hands wide spread before her. She 
drew away from the men, who were trying to reinforce her 
strength with theirs. She said to them: “If all of you are 
satisfied, will you please go?” 

Albert Rich said to her: “Mahala, are you strong 
enough? Could you endure a trip to town with us? 


REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 425 

Becky feels that she can’t die in peace until she has seen 
you. She is begging for you constantly.” 

Mahala assented. “Wait in the carriage,” she said.* 
“Give me a few minutes to think, to make myself present¬ 
able, and then I will try to go with you.” 

She hastily straightened her attire, then she went 
through the back of the house. She found Jason sitting in 
the kitchen, his face buried in his arms. In tones of cold 
formality as to a stranger, she said to him: “ Becky is ask¬ 
ing for me. Will you close and lock the house and then 
come to the bank after me? They say she is dying, that 
she feels she cannot go in peace until she has seen me. I 
am forced to go.” 

As they drove through the brilliancy of spring along 
the River Road, the men tried to say kindly things to 
Mahala. Presently, they realized that she was not hear¬ 
ing them, that they were wasting words. 

The outskirts of the town of Ashwater showed that it 
had been shaken from centre to circumference. Women 
were running bareheaded across the streets. Men were 
hastening here and there, and it could be seen that their 
hands were shaking, that their faces were set, that the 
expressions upon them more clearly resembled ravenous 
animals than men. They were calling out to each other, 
they were breathing threats, they were uttering awful 
curses. Man was telling man what the hands of the More¬ 
lands had done to him. Here was a man whose land had 
gone delinquent, and before he was able to redeem it, 
Martin Moreland had taken it from him for a third of its 


426 THE WHITE FLAG 

value. Here was a seamstress who had not been able to 
pay the street taxes in front of her little home, and because 
she had borrowed from Martin Moreland she had lost her 
shelter. 

Even from the country there were beginning to come 
teams driven by men whose faces were pictures of outrage. 
Conspicuous on the village streets was the form of Jimmy 
Price. He was rushing around with a sickle in one hand, 
telling every one who would listen what every one else had 
said. For once in his life he had forgotten to try to make 
himself ridiculous. In his excitement he became a pathetic 
thing. He who never had anything to lose was blustering, 
threatening, and wildly gesticulating over the wrongs of 
others. Men who had lost heavily, many of them the 
savings of a lifetime, were in a different mood. They 
were gathered in grim consultation. They were passing 
from house to house, in harsh tones they were making sure 
of their grievances: “Just what was the sum he skinned 
you out of, Robert?” “Did you say, John, your wife 
needn’t have died if you hadn’t been forced to move her 
in mid winter when she’d just had the baby?” 

They were remembering, they were recalling, they were 
computing, they were sowing the germs of a mob spirit 
right and left, but their work was certain and methodical. 
Unmolested, the boys of Ashwater had been busy. As the 
carriage came down the street, Mahala could see great 
streaks of yellow paint smeared across the front of the 
bank. The bronze dogs, so proudly referred to by Martin 
Moreland as the “watch dogs of the Treasury,” had been 


i 


REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 427 

crudely muzzled with heavy wire, the yellow paint had 
been liberally used on them. Some one had broken off 
their tails and stuck them between their legs; the rough 
stumps were festooned with tin tomato and peach cans. 

When the carriage stopped in front of the bank, the 
party could only force their way a step at a time to the 
door. At sight of Mahala pandemonium broke loose. 
Here was the most tangible thing upon which they could 
lay their hands. On her they might give their imagina¬ 
tions free rein, with justice. Nothing could be done that 
could ever, in any degree, atone for the misery through 
which she had passed. 

She had thought that she was keeping her set white face 
straight ahead and pressing forward as swiftly as she 
could force her way, but as she neared the door she saw an 
arresting sight that caused her to pause and turn, looking 
the mob in the face. At first glance a spasm of fear shook 
her. She was forced to look penetrantly to recognize some 
of the faces she had known all her life. They were so dis¬ 
torted, so unrecognizable in the spasms of emotion now 
possessing them. Swift as memory flies, she recalled a 
few of the stories in the hearts of some of the men in the 
front of that circle, and yet, pressing nearest of all to the 
building, with disarranged clothing, disordered hair, and 
almost frothing at the mouth, pranced Jimmy Price. 
Encouraged by the growl behind him as Mahala paused, 
he was the first man to lift a hand and crash a brick he 
carried through the heavy plate glass of the bank window. 
Even as the glass cracked and broke there came to Mahala 


THE WHITE FLAG 


428 

the realization that it was very likely that Jimmy Price 
never had deposited ten dollars in the First National at 
one time in his life. He never had owned real estate, and 
the thought came to her even in that crisis, that among 
the mob probably there were many others like Jimmy 
taking a vicarious revenge when no personal wrong had 
been done them. Her sense of justice and fair play came 
to life instantly. 

She lifted her hand and cried out to the mob: “Wait! 
For the love of God, wait! Learn the truth and act sin¬ 
cerely. Nothing can right the past for some of us, but I 
beg that you will wait!” 

The mob drew back slightly, but it did not disperse. 
In alternating waves of quiet and of flaming anger as some 
new recruit from the suburbs, or the country, arrived and 
began detailing his grievances, it surged back and forth 
before the bank. When the door was unlocked from the 
inside, Mahala entered and followed the men to the di¬ 
rectors’ room. As she stepped through the door, she saw 
Rebecca lying pillowed on a leather couch. All the look 
of childish unconcern had left her face. As she turned 
toward Mahala it could plainly be seen that she was in 
possession of her reason. She was a middle-aged woman, 
tried and hurt past endurance. Her breath was dragging 
heavily. One hand was fingering nervously at the edge 
of the leather, the other tightly gripped the osier, the white 
flag lying across her knees. 

Swiftly Mahala knelt beside her. She tried' to smile. 
She opened her lips and she was almost surprised to hear 


REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 429 

her own voice asking evenly: “ Tou wanted me, Becky?” 

“Yes, oh, yes! 5 ’ cried Rebecca. “The cloud has lifted 
but it’s a strange thing that there remains in my memory 
every least little thing that ever happened to me. I know 
now what happened to the best friend I ever had in Ash- 
water, when I did what Junior Moreland told me would 
please you so.” 

“It’s all right now, Becky. Don't try to talk,” whis¬ 
pered Mahala, taking the straying hand in both of hers 
and holding it close against her breast. “We found the 
pocket book. It’s all right now.” 

“But I must talk!” panted Rebecca. “I must hear you 
say that you forgive me. You had been kind to me, you 
had fed me, you told me that the little house on the River 
Road was your home. I thought I was repaying you for 
your promise to help me in my search. I thought I was 
doing a thing that would surprise and please you. Junior 
said you would be so surprised when you found the money 
in your home.” 

In bitterness Mahala bowed her head over Rebecca’s 
hand. For an instant her mind worked over that thought. 
The sardonic humour of Junior saying that she would be 
surprised when the money was found in her home! Cer¬ 
tainly she would have been if it had been found there. A 
chill shook her as she paused a moment concentrating on 
the quality of Junior’s mind. He must have known that 
to have the money found in her home would kill Elizabeth 
Spellman as cruelly as death could be inflicted; that it 
would possibly fasten lasting disgrace on her; yet he had 


430 


THE WHITE FLAG 


done his best to accomplish those things. Recalled by 
Rebecca’s clinging hand, she tried to comfort her. 

She said to her: “Since every one knows now that I 
never touched the pocket book, it’s all right, Becky. 
Don’t try to talk any more. Lie quiet so that you will 
soon be better.” 

But Rebecca shook her head. 

“ First I had to have your forgiveness,” she said. “Now 
I must see Martin Moreland.” 

Mahala turned to Albert Rich. “Step to Mr. More¬ 
land’s private office and ask him to come here,” she said. 

Albert Rich assented, but he returned in a minute saying 
that Mr. Moreland refused to come. The wave of white¬ 
ness that swept Rebecca’s face, and the spasm of pain that 
shook her body, both reacted upon Mahala. She lifted 
her head. 

“Mr. Moreland has no option,” she said steadily. “He 
is no longer the controlling factor in the life of this town.” 

She nodded to the sheriff and to Albert Rich. “Once 
he worked his will on me without authority. Now it is 
my turn. Bring him here.” 

Forced by a strong man on either side of him, Martin 
Moreland stood at the feet of Rebecca Sampson. For what 
seemed an endless time to the tensely silent people waiting 
in the room, Rebecca’s eyes studied Martin Moreland. 

Then she cried to him: “That my soul may pass from 
this foot-sore body in peace, tell me, Martin Moreland, 
was I a scarlet woman?” 

Up to that time Martin Moreland had refused to look 


REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 431 

at Rebecca. He had kept his eyes turned toward the 
doorway, to the ceiling. At that appeal, in spite of his in¬ 
tentions, something in his inner consciousness forced him 
to meet her look. To Mahala, at that minute, Rebecca 
was appealingly beautiful. The mass of her waving fair 
hair had been loosened and spread over the pillow 
around her in the examination of her injury. The matur¬ 
ity that realization had brought to her face only gave to it 
greater appeal. No matter how widely she had journeyed, 
or how inclement the weather, she always had kept her 
person with the neat daintiness of any fine lady. It 
seemed to the onlookers that Moreland was moved to some 
degree of remorse. There seemed to be forced from him, 
in spite of the effort he was making for self-preservation, 
the cry: “No! No! You were my wife. The divorce 
was fraudulent, not the marriage.” 

The rigours of Rebecca’s body eased. She sank back 
with a deep breath and two big tears trickled from her 
eyes. But almost immediately she roused again. She 
drew from Mahala’s clasp the hand she was holding and 
stretched it to Martin Moreland. 

“My baby!” she cried. “What did you do with my 
baby? I want him! Oh, Martin, I want to see him be¬ 
fore I die!” 

Martin Moreland drew back. Slowly he shook his head. 

Rebecca appealed to Mahala. She began to cry in a 
pitiful, broken way, her body torn by physical emotion 
added to the difficulty in breathing that the concussion 
was making. 


43 2 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“Mahala,” she begged, “you know the weary years that 
I’ve hunted and I’ve hunted. You’re the only one I ever 
told that I ever had a little baby—a darling little baby— 
and Martin Moreland took him away, and I couldn’t find 
him! You said you’d help me. Beg him, oh, beg him, to 
give me back my baby!” 

Mahala arose. She took one step toward Martin More¬ 
land and slightly extended a hand. 

“Mr. Moreland,” she said, “I’d die on the rack before 
I’d ask anything of you for myself. Because of my word 
to Becky, I’m asking you now to give her back her 
baby.” 

Mahala did not realize thart the baby for which Rebecca 
was asking must be a man at that time. She was 
visioning a little pink bit of humanity bundled in white 
as it must have been when Rebecca had lost it. For an 
instant she stood thinking. She realized that some one 
had taken a place beside her, and looking up, she saw that 
Jason had been admitted to the room, and was standing 
near enough to reinforce her strength with his. 

The dying woman saw him also, and instantly she 
stretched her hand toward him. 

“You have always been my friend,” she said. “Help 
me only this once more.” 

“What shall I do, Rebecca?” asked Jason. 

“When he was a tiny thing, only just born, Martin 
Moreland took my baby,” she said. “I only had him once 
for a minute. Make him give him back to me before I 
must die.” 


REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 433 

Jason stood looking in a dazed way from Martin More¬ 
land to Rebecca. Then he looked at Mahala as she spoke: 
“ For the love of God, Martin Moreland, tell Rebecca what 
you did with her baby!” 

She dropped on her knees beside the couch and again 
gathered to her breast the hand that Rebecca was reaching 
to Martin Moreland. 

Jason lifted his head. He shook it, and his shoulders 
twitched as he stepped forward, his face ashen and cut deep 
in lines of torture. Throwing out his arms, he pushed 
back the other men and closed on the old banker. With a 
powerful hand he gripped one of his arms and drew him 
nearer to Rebecca. There was something terrible in his 
voice, something final and ultimate, something discernibly 
deadly as he ground out the question: “Is this woman’s 
child living or dead?” 

Martin Moreland was pulling back. He had taken one 
look at Jason’s face, and what he had seen appalled him. 
His lips were white and stiff; it was only a whisper, the 
answer he made: “Living.” 

Then Jason demanded: “Do you know where he is?” 

The banker nodded. 

Jason gripped him more firmly. He drew him closer 
and then he said in tones of finality: “You shall tell 
Becky where her child is.” 

Martin Moreland shook his head. 

“You shall tell her,” said Jason, “or I’ll take you out 
and explain to the mob that is howling for your blood.” 

Again Martin Moreland shook his head. 


434 


THE WHITE FLAG 


Suddenly Jason swung him around; he shoved him in 
front of him across the room and into the hall from the 
back end of which there could be seen the big plate glass 
window, shattered at the top, and the glass door. Pressed 
against what remained of the broken glass of the window 
and the door, and reinforced by the width of the packed 
street behind them, there were faces topping the forms of 
men, yet one scarcely would have recognized them as the 
faces of men,—menacing faces by the hundred, upon the 
bodies of men who had been men of peace, men of patience, 
godly men. They were farmers and business men and 
day labourers. They had been outraged to a degree that 
had turned them into a compact mob of snarling, blood¬ 
thirsty beasts. In their hands could be seen revolvers, 
rifles, sickles; some of them carried axes, some of them 
bricks and stones, or clubs. At the sight of the banker a 
snarling cry broke from them and they surged forward 
until the front of the building shook with their impact. 

Galvanized with terror, Moreland summoned strength 
to break from Jason’s grasp and rush back toward the 
directors’ room. But Jason was at his heels as he reached 
the door, he caught and whirled him around, once more 
forcing him to face Rebecca. She struggled to a sitting 
posture and stretched out both hands in a last appeal. 

“My baby! Give me back my baby. Let me have 
him only one minute before I die!” 

Martin Moreland shook his ghastly white head. 

Then Jason gripped his other arm and brought his 
strength to bear until the old banker shrank and winced. 


V 


REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 435 

Rebecca was rapidly losing strength. Great tears began 
running down her cheeks. 

“Martin, I loved you so,” she pleaded. “Don’t you 
remember that I gave you everything? And you took all 
I had to give and you took my baby, too, and you threw 
me away and God punished me. He made me an outcast 
and a wanderer, while you had everything. It wasn’t 
fair. I’ve spent my life searching for my baby, and I 
can’t find him-” 

Suddenly the beast broke in Doctor Grayson, in Albert 
Rich, in the sheriff, in the cashier. With black menace 
on their faces, they crowded up to reinforce Jason. The 
old banker looked around wildly for an avenue of escape; 
and there was none He hesitated an instant longer and 
then he lifted a shaking hand as he said: “If you will 
have it, then, there is your baby.” He indicated Jason. 

Rebecca lifted herself free of all support. She stared 
at Martin Moreland and then she studied Jason. Her 
eyes seemed to leap to his face and to cling there. A des¬ 
perate inquiry was running in waves over her tortured 
face. She began to see lines that she recognized, a like¬ 
ness to herself in the colouring of the hair and the eyes, 
suggestions of the lean face of Moreland, reproduced in 
Jason. A look of wonder crept into her face, and then 
one of horror. She drew back from Martin Moreland, a 
look of repulsion on her face, on every line of her figure. 

“You devil!” she cried to him. “You let me walk the 
roads of earth every day seeking my baby, every day 
seeing him; experiencing his kindness, and not knowing 



THE WHITE FLAG 


43 6 

he was mine. That knowledge would have cured my sick 
brain, would have saved me-” 

She paused from weakness, but an instant later she 
gathered her forces and raised her hand. 

“The curse of God shall fall as heavily on you as it has 
on me,” she cried. “It is His justice. He wills that you 
shall now take up the white flag that I have been forced to 
carry every day for the salvation of my soul, and for the' 
salvation of yours you shall carry it for the remainder of 
your life! After all, you are the worse off of the two. I 
lost my baby; you have lost your soul. Now you shall go 
and seek it.” 

She thrust the white flag into his hands and said to the 
men: “Let him go free. This is the work of God. Start 
him on his journey.” 

The men stepped back. With bowed head, the flag in 
his hand, Martin Moreland turned and sought what safety 
was promised him in the shelter of his private room. 
There were men in his employ awaiting him there, and 
they watched him with repulsed eyes as he tottered into 
the room carrying the white emblem. Freed from the 
torturing hands that had gripped him, he tried to think. 
He made an effort to recover the ground that their faces 
told him he had lost in their estimation. Mechanically, 
he made his way to his chair. The absurd flag was in his 
hands. What would he do with it? He glanced around 
and then he thrust the holder into an urn standing on a 
bookcase behind his chair. It was an unfortunate dis¬ 
posal to make of the flag, for when he dropped into his 



REBECCA PRONOUNCES JUDGMENT 437 

accustomed seat, it was hanging directly over his head, 
its snowy whiteness stained by contact with the street and 
with the blood of the woman who for many years had 
borne it, a self-imposed penance for the easement of her 

soul. 

In the directors’ room, Rebecca lifted her face to Jason. 
She stretched out her shaking arms. 

“Jason!” she cried, “do you think this is the truth? 
Are you my baby? Oh, are you my baby? And if you 
are, will you come to me only a minute before I go?” 

Jason came crashing to his knees beside her. He slid 
an arm under her body and caught her shoulders in a firm 
grip. 

“Yes, I think it is the truth,” he said. “I believe you, 
and I believe him. In my heart I feel that you are my 
mother.” 

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her face and 
her hands while she made her crossing. 


CHAPTER XX 

The Decision Marcia Reached 

W HEN Marcia and the little milliner finished 
compiling the bill for the length of time that 
Marcia had boarded and cared for Jason, they 
did not know what to do with it. They were in doubt as 
to whether they should present it at once or wait until the 
Morelands made their move and then use the bill to coun¬ 
teract it. They discussed every phase of the situation re¬ 
peatedly. They waited what seemed to them a long time, 
and at last it was Marcia who reached a decision for both 

of them. 

“I simply refuse to live in this uncertainty any longer,” 
she said to Nancy. “I’m going to take this bill to Ash- 
water. Albert Rich is the best lawyer there. In the old 
days I did a great deal of work for Mrs. Rich. I believe 
that he is a considerate man. I know that he has no cause 
to love Martin Moreland. I’m going to tell him what I 
think is necessary. I’m going to ask his opinion. I m 
tired shivering and shaking and being tortured with fear. 
I realize that Martin Moreland’s hand is heavy, but after 
all, there are two things that are stronger than he—one is 
public opinion and the other is God. Both of them would 
be against him if the truth were known.” 

j.38 



THE DECISION MARCIA REACHED 439 

Nancy thought deeply. 

“You are right,” she said. “It isn’t fair that he should 
keep us shivering and shaking and make our days unhappy 
and our nights a terror. Go to Ashwater. Tell this 
Albert Rich what you think is necessary. I can’t see 
that you need to go into full detail. Make him under¬ 
stand only what is essential.” 

“All right,” said Marcia, “I’m going.” 

Nancy put the kettle to boil and brewed a cup of strong 
tea while Marcia was dressing, for it could be seen that she 
was labouring under heavy mental strain. Nancy fol¬ 
lowed her to the corner where Marcia took the daily 
omnibus that ran between the two towns. She kissed her 
good-bye and clung to her hands with a reassuring grip. 
After she had gone back to the shop, she condemned her¬ 
self that she had allowed Marcia to go alone. She felt 
niggardly. Why did people let their fear of losing a few 
pennies intervene when matters concerning their hearts 
and their souls were at stake? What was money that it 
should make such dreadful things of men and women? 
After all, men had made money; it was an emanation of 
their brain. It was not one of the things that God had 
made. It was an invention by which man, himself, had 
put upon his soul such shackles as the Almighty never 
would have imposed. She wondered why she had not 
locked the door and let people think what they would. 
Was there any woman in Bluffport who needed a hat so 
badly that she could not have waited one day while Nancy 
sat beside Marcia and gave her the comfort of the grip of 


THE WHITE FLAG 


440 

her hand, the sound of her voice, the chance to say a word 
here and there that might have distracted her mind from 
its burden? 

Nancy sat trying to think how she would feel if her 
soul were stained with the red secret that she realized 
never ceased to burn and to eat into the consciousness of 
her friend. And because she was her friend, and because 
she had learned to love Marcia as she loved no one else, 
the big tears rolled down her cheeks and several times that 
day she sewed their stains under deftly folded velvet. 

When Marcia stepped from the omnibus at the court¬ 
house corner in Ashwater, she realized that some disaster 
had overtaken the town. Here and there she saw women 
weeping and wringing their hands. Little children 
scuttled past with terrified faces. Half-grown boys went 
running in one direction, their faces small mirrors of their 
elders’, their arms loaded with sticks, with bricks, with 
stones. Men hurried past, some of them carrying anti¬ 
quated firearms on their shoulders, flintlocks, and old 
army muskets; some of them with guns of modern make, 
with revolvers; and there were men in that crowd who 
carried a grubbing hoe, the blade of a scythe, a hickory 
“knockmaul,” or an axe. 

She had difficulty in finding any one who would stop 
long enough to tell her about the brain-storm that was 
sweeping Ashwater, but soon she had the essentials of what 
had occurred from people with whom she talked upon the 
street. She struggled for self-control, but in spite of her¬ 
self she grew terribly excited over the recitation of the 


THE DECISION MARCIA REACHED 441 

tragedy that the Morelands had worked in the lives of 
Rebecca Sampson, of Mahala, of Jason, of hundreds of 
other people. 

She had known Rebecca all the years of her residence 
in Ashwater. She at once understood that Martin More¬ 
land had lured her, Marcia, from her home in an adjoining 
county to the little house in which she had lived for so 
many years, for the sole purpose of using her as his tool in 
taking care of Jason. He had made love to her in the most 
alluring manner possible to him, and hers had been a 
nature that gave without question and without fear. For 
him she had sacrificed relatives and friends and gone with 
him willingly. Both the questioning and the fear she now 
knew came later, and in an intensified form. What she 
realized was, that, through all the best years of her life, 
under cover of a menial task, she had been merely a servant 
for Martin Moreland. It was not true that he was bound 
in an unhappy marriage from which he was vainly striving 
to free himself, as he had told her in the beginning. He 
had never meant to free himself. He had never intended 
to offer her marriage and an honourable position. He had 
planned to take everything she had to give; to have her 
take care of the boy, for whom she had always struggled to 
keep from forming an attachment, because the threat had 
hung over her that any minute he chose Martin Moreland 
would take him away. 

Her mind was milling over her own problem; there then 
the problem of Rebecca Sampson, and she saw, that 
even before he had determined on the wreck of her life, 


THE WHITE FLAG 


442 

Rebecca had gone down; yet these people were saying that 
he had admitted that he was legally married to her. 
Rebecca had been weak, a clinging thing, a tender, delicate 
girl; yet she had a spirit and a resistance that he could not 
break; so he had been forced to marry her. No one on the 
streets knew from where she had come or who her people 
were. They remembered that a young thing lacking 
mentality was sheltered by a little house in the outskirts. 
The few who had tried to make friends with her in the be¬ 
ginning had been repulsed with insane spasms so menacing 
that they had allowed her to go her way, as people in that 
day were permitted to go, even though it was known that 
they lacked balanced mentality. 

Finally, in her mental milling, Marcia reached Mahala, 
and her soul sickened over the things that people on the 
street were saying. By the hour she had handled Mahala’s 
little undergarments and wash dresses. She had mended 
the delicate laces and the embroideries that Elizabeth 
Spellman’s fingers had fashioned. Through the papers 
and Bluffport gossip, she had heard of the tragedy that 
had overtaken her. She had talked it over with Nancy, 
and she had said to her: 4 'To save my life, I cannot believe 
that Mahala Spellman ever laid her fingers upon anything 
that did not belong to her. There must have been some 
reason, there must have been some plan on the part of the 
Morelands to ruin her. If there was property they could 
get by doing it, the wreck of a woman’s life would not stop 
them.” 

Now the motive was furnished. Albert Rich had not 


THE DECISION MARCIA REACHED 443 

hesitated, when the crisis came, to tell people why Junior 
wanted to do anything that would hurt and humiliate 
Mahala. 

Finally, she reached Jason. She found herself saying 
aloud: “Jason was a good boy. If I had been permitted, 
I could have made life different for him.” 

Not knowing what the outcome of the trouble in Ash- 
water would be, Marcia felt that since the Morelands had 
come into the open and were doing terrible things to other 
people, her time would soon come. They would crush her 
as they had crushed Rebecca, Mahala and her mother, 
Mr. Spellman and the other men who had fallen into their 
power in a financial way—these other men who were raging 
up and down before the court-house block in the main 
business square of the town, like blood-thirsty hyenas. 

It seemed to Marcia that in order to collect her thoughts, 
she must get away from people, she must go where her 
mind would not be diverted by what she was seeing and 
hearing on the streets. She had thought that she might 
find refuge in the office of Albert Rich, and she had gone 
there, but it was locked and when she inquired for him, she 
had been told that he was in the bank. No one knew what 
was happening there or when he could be seen. Then 
Marcia followed an impulse she could not define, did not 
realize that she was following. Her face turned to a 
familiar direction; her feet carried her on a well-known 
path. She went straight to the house in the outskirts 
where she and Jason had spent so many years together. 
The whole place had been changed. It was now comfort- 


THE WHITE FLAG 


444 

able. It was gay with paint; there was grass in the door- 
yard; there were flowers blooming in small round and 
square beds and lining the inside of the new fence. There 
was a carefully tended garden, but she could see no one 
and hear no one as she paced up and down before it. She 
thought that the people, who evidently were living happily 
there, must have been drawn down town by the excite¬ 
ment. 

Being very tired, Marcia went slowly up the walk. 
She sat on a chair on the veranda shaded by the big, 
widely branching maple tree, and there she tried to think. 
It was quiet and a robin was singing in the branches, but 
she found that her brain, her heart and her blood, were in 
such turmoil that she was unable to sit still. So she left 
the veranda, and following the street to where it reached 
the country, she took up a foot path across a meadow and 
at last she entered the wood behind the house where Jason 
had taken refuge as a child. 

Tired out at last, she sat on a log in the stillness of the 
deep wood, and there she tried again to think. But she 
found that instead of thinking, she was seeing things. As 
she looked at the dark floor of the forest with the great 
trees, the thickness of the bushes, she began to see a 
vision of the night of horror that a terrified boy must 
have spent there when he fled before the wrath of Martin 
Moreland. As if she really had shared that night with him 
she saw the things that had tortured him. She visioned 
his return to the deserted house and his grief and loneliness 
when he had found himself abandoned. She remembered 


THE DECISION MARCIA REACHED 445 

what she had been told of the success that he had made of 
life, of how he had prospered in partnership with Peter 
Potter, and how his love of land had culminated in his 
efforts for Mahala and himself. 

Into her vision there came the pathetic figure of Re¬ 
becca, hiding the bloom and the beauty of her young face, 
proclaiming herself everywhere she went with her self- 
imposed emblem of purity, trying to convey to others the 
belief that possessed her that her soul was white even as 
she suffered torments in the fear that it was scarlet. 
Marcia thought of the long path over which Rebecca 
had journeyed. She even tried a mental estimate of the 
hundreds of miles that one woman’s feet had travelled, 
driven in insane unrest from point to point. She recalled 
having been told that in three different states the white flag 
had been seen, a voice had been bravely lifted exhorting 
every one to acknowledge the love of the Saviour, His power 
to heal. Marcia, in imagination, saw Rebecca’s waving 
banner gleaming in the light, her tireless eyes always 
searching from side to side, looking at the arms of every 
person carrying a child, peering into the little buggies in 
which women dragged after them the babies they had 
brought into life through love, and were permitted to 
keep. She thought of Rebecca a long time and wondered 
who her people might have been and where her home 
might be; she thought of the price that she had paid to 
protect her honour, and very slowly a resolve began form¬ 
ing in Marcia’s heart. 

\ Into her vision Mahala came flying down the village 


THE WHITE FLAG 


446 

street, her feet scattering the gold and red leaves of the 
maples of autumn, her broad hat hanging across her throat 
by its ties, her pretty, wide skirts blown around her, as 
she dexterously rolled a gay hoop before her. She 
thought of the girl’s youth and her beauty, and of how 
she had been stripped of her parents, her home, her friends, 
and worse than all that, of her honour. 

Then Marcia saw a woman coming toward her through 
the forest, a woman of her own height and form, a woman 
of her own face, but she wore a long, trailing robe of scar¬ 
let, and she was lost. Her outstretched hands seemed to 
be feeling their way, her eyes were not efficient; they were 
looking up, but they were not helping her feet to find the 
path. Sometimes as Marcia saw her in a shaft of sun¬ 
light, there was the hope in her heart that the stumbling 
creature might find the way; sometimes she saw her stand¬ 
ing lost in deep darkness, but always one hand was cover¬ 
ing her heart, and always she was stumbling over the 
scarlet robe that trailed around her and seemed to creep up 
to her arms and her shoulders like the hot scorching of a 
flame. 

Finally, the figures of the two Morelands came through 
the forest. They were like giants that had broken into 
the wood. They did not seem to be made of flesh and 
blood; they did not seem to be men like Mahlon Spellman 
and Albert Rich and Doctor Grayson and the Presbyterian 
minister; they seemed to be made of bronze or iron, while 
their hands were huge, without hesitation crushing little 
children, frail women, and weaker men; they reached out 


THE DECISION MARCIA REACHED 447 

and wrested from people their homes, their most precious 
possessions, and with heavy feet they trampled upon every¬ 
thing that came in their path. 

Then she saw the son leave the father and advance 
toward her, his unsparing hands outstretched, his feet ready 
to trample, on his face the sneer that had been there when 
he had entered her place of business and found enjoyment 
in dealing the blow that had struck the light from her eyes 
and hope from her heart. 

Suddenly, Marcia arose and slipped through the wood 
in the dark, inconspicuous dress she had selected to wear. 
When she came to the open, she was amazed to find that 
it was night. Fully half the day she had struggled alone 
in the forest. She came from it with one determination 
fixed in her mind. She went to the business part of the 
town, being unnoticed among the throngs that still crowded 
the streets, until she reached the bank. She was familiar 
with the back part of it. She watched her chance, slipped 
down the alley, climbed the back stairs, and tried the 
door. It was locked, but she easily climbed through the 
open window into the room that bore Junior's name 
above the side stairs. 

The flares of light on the street lit the office intermit¬ 
tently. She walked around the room. She went to 
Junior's big desk; she sat down in his chair in front of it. 
She looked over the books and the litter of papers that 
were piled on it. She moved slowly and deliberately. 
Then she began opening the drawers in front of her. In 
the top right-hand one lay a big revolver. It seemed to 


448 THE WHITE FLAG 

fascinate her. She picked it up and fitted it to her hand. 
She laid her fingers upon the trigger. Then she heard a 
rush of footsteps coming up the inside stairway from the 
private room of Martin Moreland. Snatching up the 
revolver, she shoved the drawer shut, and running across 
the room, entered a closet the door of which was standing 
slightly ajar. 


CHAPTER XXI 

“Whatsoever a Man Sows” 

J ASON remained with Mahala and Rebecca in the 
directors room 01 the bank as long as there was life 
in Rebecca s body. After that he spent some time 
m consultation as to what was to be done. With his own 
hands he carried Rebecca from the bank to the rooms of 
the undertaker. When he had finished the things that 
required immediate attention, he went back to the bank 
and demanded admittance to the private room of the 
president; but the door was locked. Then he inquired for 
Junior and found that no one knew where he was. Sus¬ 
pecting that he might be in hiding in his room above the 
bank, Jason went around the block and down the alley. 
He crept up the back stairway and going to the window 
which looked into Junior’s room, he saw him sitting before 
his table. He seemed to be leaning forward, and was so 
still that Jason fancied that he might be completely ex¬ 
hausted or even asleep. 

He stepped through the window, and walking around 
the desk, placed himself in front of Junior. He saw that 
Junior was crouched in his chair; that there was a ghastly 
expression on his face. A revolver was lying on the table 
in front of him. His left hand was gripping his clothing 

449 


THE WHITE FLAG 


45° 

that he was pressing hard over the region of his heart. 
In the air two predominant taints were mingling. Either 
of them was sickening. About the combination there was 
a nausea that shook Jason on his feet, but he braced his 
hands on the table, and leaning forward, he tried to stare 
deep into Junior's eyes. 

Junior smiled at him in a stiff, set way that was disarm¬ 
ing. The first time his lips moved, Jason could not catch 
what he was saying. He leaned closer, and then he heard 
distinctly: “You have come to settle with me?” 

Jason nodded grimly. He studied Junior an instant 
longer and then he said quietly: “With my naked hands 
I’m going to tear you limb from limb!” 

To his surprise, Junior nodded in agreement. 

Jason continued: “And when I have finished with 
you, I am going to do the same thing to your horrible 
father.” 

Surprise arrested Jason as he saw Junior’s lips draw 
back over his teeth in a stiff smile, a stiff, set smile, and yet 
there was something about him, about the wave of the hair 
around his white face, about the light in his eyes, that was 
bonny. He must have been a beautiful baby. His 
mother might have been excused for loving him to idolatry. 

Junior’s voice was hoarse, scarcely understandable: 

You re too late, he said. “A woman got ahead of 
you.” 

Jason rounded the corner of the table. He seized the 
coat which Junior was holding to his side. Then both of 
them heard a battering on the outer door. Both of them 


“WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWS” 451 

recognized the voice of Mahala crying: “Jason! For 
God’s sake let me in!” 

Jason withdrew his hands from Junior and stared down 
at him, and then he looked at the door. But Junior met 
his eyes, and gathering his forces, he said quietly: “Let her 
in. It is her right to be present at the finish of the More¬ 
lands.” 

Slowly Jason crossed the room and unlocked the door. 
Mahala rushed inside and Jason slammed shut the door 
after her, relocking it. He could almost feel the steps 
rocking from the weight of the men crowded upon them. 
Mahala’s eyes raced over Jason from head to foot and a 
breath of relief escaped her. Then she turned to Junior. 
She saw his ghastly face; she saw a slow red spread over 
the hand that was gripping his side. She saw the revolver 
on the table before him, and she cried out in horror: “Oh, 
Jason! Am I too late to keep you from blackening your 
soul?” 

Junior gathered his remaining forces. He made a brave 
struggle to straighten in his chair. The smile that he 
meant to be attractive was ghastly. There was something 
beyond description in his tones: “Mahala, you’ve been a 
long time coming,” he said to the terrified girl. “Pardon 
my bad manners, I would stand to welcome you if I 
could.” 

Mahala watched him in fascinated wonder and again 
that awful smile flashed across his face. 

“Don’t look so horrified,” he said to her. “This is 

not fratricide.” 


452 


THE WHITE FLAG 

He lifted his right hand and grasping the revolver, drew 
it toward him. “I have the honour to inform you,” he 
said, “that at the eleventh hour I have had the decency to 
remove myself from the world for the express purpose of 
saving a lady and my dear brother the disagreeable task. 
In about three minutes, Mahala, I'm going to be a very 
dead man.” 

A door near the closet opened and Martin Moreland 
hurried into the room. In a panic of terror, he rushed 
to Junior, calling in a high, strained voice: “Up, boy, up! 
This is no time to sleep! The mob is hot after our blood! 
The mob! They mean business, I tell you! They're going 
to beat us and strangle us like dogs!” 

lie rushed to Junior, seized him by the shoulder and 
dragged him to a sitting posture. “Wake up, Junior!” 
he cried. “Wake up!” 

There was still life in Junior. With a gasp and a rattle, 
he answered his father: “Too late, Dad, Eve finished this 
in my own way. They can't get me, because I’m not here.” 

Then he relaxed, and what might have been a beautiful 
and a gallant spirit took its flight. 

Seeing the revolver clasped in Junior’s hand, and realiz¬ 
ing what he had said and what the blood-soaked side and 
hand meant, Martin Moreland stood still. The room 
was filled with the roar of angry voices. The door was 
shivering under the blows that were being trained against 
He raced across the room to take refuge m the closet. 
He jerked open the door and stood facing Marcia looking 
at him with cold, relentless eyes. In his fear and agony, 


“WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWS” 


453 

he did not realize that she was a living woman; it 
never occurred to him that she could be standing there in 
flesh and blood. He thought what he was seeing was an 
avenging spirit. He drew back, overcome with horror, 
and then suddenly he dropped on his knees and reaching 
up his hands to her, he began to pray as he should have 
prayed to the Mother of God. He begged her to forgive 
him, to have mercy; he implored her to restore to him the 
life of his beloved son. 

Looking down at him, in a tone of utter finality, Marcia 
suddenly began to quote: “‘Whatsoever a man soweth, 
that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh 
shall of the flesh reap corruption.’” 

Under the lash of her pointing finger and her white face 
of accusation, the last trace of reason fled the brain of 
the old banker. He shrank back from her, and cowering 
on the floor, began jabbering incoherently. 

Marcia stepped from the closet and faced Jason and 
Mahala. Instantly, they recognized each other. Jason 
left Mahala’s side and went to Marcia. 

“You?” he cried in bewilderment. “Did Junior shoot 
himself to save you from having blood on your soul?” 

“Yes, Jason,” answered Marcia. “Junior knew that 
I already had enough sin on my soul.” 

Jason cried out in protest: “No! No! Your soul 
always has been white.” 

Marcia held out her hands. She bowed her head, but 
presently she lifted her face and made her confession. 

“No, Jason,” she said deliberately, “I gave myself 


454 


THE WHITE FLAG 

to the man I had learned to love in defiance of everything. 
God knows that I have had, and shall continue to have 
through all the days of my life, my punishment. Maybe 
He will forgive me some day. But, Jason, will you forgive 
me now for your unloved childhood? I never dared teach 
you to love me, but I do feel that my chance with God 
would be better, if you would say that you forgive me 
before I make my appeal to Him.” 

Jason took her in his arms. He ran his hand under 
her chin and lifted her face. He laid his lips on her 
forehead. 

“Don't cry, Marcia, it's all right,” he said quietly. 

There was no time to say more. T. he outer door would 
give way any minute. Martin Moreland crept to the feet 
of Mahala, whimpering like a frightened dog. He kept 
working her body between him and Jason. 

Mahala looked at him in sick dismay. “We must get 
him out of here,” she said to Jason. 

“Let them have him!” cried Jason. “His blood be¬ 
longs to a hundred men in that crowd, only God knows to 
how many women.” 

Mahala looked down at iVIartm M^oreland, crouching, 
fawning. “Stand up!” she cried suddenly; and he obeyed. 
“Did you come here by an inside stairway?” she asked. 

Martin Moreland drew a ring from his pocket, but his 
shaking fingers could only indicate the key. He turned 
to the door by which he had entered. Mahala opened 
it and said to Jason: You and Marcia take him down to 
his private office. Til come in a minute.” 


“WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWS” 


455 

When the door closed after them, Mahala drew the 
lock and opened the outside door so that the sheriff and 
the men crowding the stairs could come into the room. 
She indicated Junior. “ There is one of the men you 
want,” she said, “but he is out of your reach.” 

She pointed to the revolver lying near his right hand. 
“He admitted to three of us and his father that he took 
his own life,” she said, “which is his way of acknowledging 
his guilt and showing that he was too big a coward to 

endure himself, what he put upon me- But let that 

go, the debt is paid now.” 

As she talked, Mahala backed toward the door to the 
inner stairway. When she reached it she added: “I was 
here when Martin Moreland heard Junior say he had shot 
himself and then he saw a ghost, and his brain gave way. 
The father is as far past your vengeance as the son. He is 
a cringing maniac. You people must go home quietly. 
Your work is finished for you. ” 

She swiftly stepped through the door and hurriedly 
locked it after her, running down the stairs. At the door 
to the private office she stood dazed. Martin Moreland, 
with shaking hands and babbling voice, was exhorting 
Jason and Marcia to pass under the white flag in the exact 
words of Rebecca, but there was no light of reason in his 
eyes. 

Mahala looked at him a long time. Then she said 
to Jason: “Both of them have escaped you, and for your 
sake, it is best. Come on, we will take him home. No 
mob will attack an insane man, and once we have taken 



456 THE WHITE FLAG 

him to his home, our share of this is finished. Bring him 
along.” 

“Wait a minute,” said Jason. He turned to Marcia. 
€< There is no necessity for you to face the mob and be 
connected with this,” he said. He stretched his hand 
toward Mahala. “Give me those keys until I find the 
one that fits the back door. As soon as I let Marcia out, 
I will come back and do what you wish.” 

As soon as Jason returned, Mahala went through the 
directors’ room and down the hall where she was in sight 
of the mob. As soon as they saw her, quiet fell upon 
them. She advanced to the front door, and unlocking 
it, she threw it wide. Then she stepped out, lifting her 
hands for silence. Before she had time to speak, the 
sheriff came down the outer stairway and took up his place 
beside her. At sight of him, a babel of cries broke from 
the mob and they surged forward, shouting: “Where are 
they?” 

Mahala began to speak. When they heard her voice, 
silence again fell on the mob. 

“Men and women of Ashwater, I have this to teHyou,’* 
she said in a clear, cold voice. “I admit the justice of 
your anger, but none of you has so great cause against the 
Morelands as I have. I admit that they have escaped 
me, and I am here to tell you that they have escaped you. 
The sheriff and the men accompanying him found Junior 
lying in his room. He has made the great crossing by his 
own hand. He admitted to three of us, and in the presence 
of his father, that he had taken his own life. That was 


“WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWS” 


457 

his admission of guilt. When his father realized this and 
turned from it to see a ghostly spectre of his past standing 
before him, a strain that must have been of long duration, 
gave way. Dying, Rebecca Sampson cursed him and de¬ 
clared that the punishment God had meted out to him was 
to spend the remainder of his life carrying the white flag 
and preaching the doctrine of purity as her conscience 
has forced her to do all these years among us. Coming 
from the sight of Junior’s ghastly face, his father saw the 
flag that Becky had decreed that he should carry. He 
had brain enough to recognize the justice of the obligation. 
He is standing in the directors’ room with it now. I beg 
that you will agree with me that this is finished. I beg 
that you will stand back quietly and let him pass; let us 
lead him to his home and turn him over to another woman 
who does not deserve punishment, yet who will be bitterly 
punished by the sins of the Morelands. Men of Ash- 
water, will you let an insane man pass?” 

Slowly the faces of the mob changed. The snarling 
anger, the hatred, began to fade. A few in the immediate 
foreground stepped back. Others held their places. Sud¬ 
denly, Mahala leaned forward. “If you will let him pass 
unmolested,” she said, “I will promise you this. A com¬ 
mittee shall be appointed, headed by Albert Rich, and the 
claims of each one of you and your papers shall be care¬ 
fully investigated, and where wrongs have been committed 
you shall have back your property. I know that Mrs. 
Moreland will agree to this, and I know that the courts 
of the county will compel it. Now, will you let us pass?” 


458 THE WHITE FLAG 

Slowly the mob fell back. Mahala turned and beckoned 
to the doorway. A minute later there appeared in it the 
shaking form of Martin Moreland. His clothing was in 
disorder, his white hair disarranged; his face was ghastly. 
With his left hand he was clinging to Jason, who could 
scarcely support him; in the right he was clutching the 
osier that bore the white flag, at that minute stained with 
the blood from Rebecca Sampson’s broken head. The 
sheriff* stepped to his side and assisted Jason. Between 
them he advanced to the steps leading to the sidewalk. 
Fear had fled the face of Martin Moreland with the going 
of his reason. In still amazement the mob saw him swing 
over them the blood-stained banner and heard his voice, 
flat and toneless, begin a sort of chant in the exact words 
with which Rebecca had familiarized them through many 
long years: “Behold the emblem of purity! Clean hearts 
may pass under with God’s blessing. Come, ye workers 

of darkness, wash your hearts clean by passing under the 
white flag!” 

Slowly the look of hate and of anger faded from the 
faces of the people. There is in the average mob at bot¬ 
tom a sense of justice. They are moved to the course they 
take by indignation over a great wrong, but there is al¬ 
ways the possibility of their being swayed quickly, as they 
were swayed at that minute by the fact that Martin 
Moreland was insane. Had he stood there, clothed in his 
right mind, they w r ould have fallen upon him and torn 
him like beasts. Bereft of his reason, he was a helpless, 
childish thing. Not one of them cared to touch his soiled, 



“WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWS” 


459 

repulsive body. Silently they drew back; they allowed 
him to go down the steps and to make his way toward his 
home unmolested. There was a look more of pity than 
of anger upon their faces as they saw his shaking hands, 
his tottering step, and heard the high, strained quality 

of the voice that besought every one he met to pass under 
the white flag. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Behind the Lilac Wall 

ikS SOON as it was possible for Mahala to escape 
/ % from the Moreland residence, she left Ashwater 
X jIl and was driven back to her home. She sought it 
instinctively as a shelter. It seemed to her that the River 
Road was unending, that she never again would see the 
light of her house; and because there was no light when 
she reached it, she was surprised at last to find that she 
was there. As a haven she plunged into it and closed the 
door behind her to shut out the horrors she had witnessed. 
Predominant in her mind at that minute was the thought 
that there was nothing in the whole world so dreadful as 
the power of riches wrongly used. When she thought 
back to the peace, the happiness, the sheer beauty of her 
childhood and her home life, it seemed to her quite impos¬ 
sible that such disaster as had overtaken her had been 
made possible by the unscrupulous power of one man 
holding his position through the right of riches dishonestly 
accumulated. After the passing of her father, after the 
testing of her own strength, she had found that she was 
sufficient; that she could take care of herself and of her 
mother as well. There was the possibility that she might 
find a confident sort of happiness in facing life and making 

460 


BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 461 

it clothe and provision her that she never would have found 
had she gone ahead under her father’s sheltering care. She 
had come dimly to realize that the sheltered life is rather 
a dull affair. It lacks the spirit, the development, the 
fraternity that can be found in an equal battle with other 
men and women for food and shelter. 

Then had come the final blow. The Morelands had 
heaped dishonour upon her. From that hour she had felt 
that to be vindicated was the only thing that life held in 
store for her. Now the thing had happened. A thousand 
people had rushed around her. T hey had almost crushed 
her in their desire to touch her, to weep with her, to tell 
her that they always had known that she never could have 
been guilty. And there had been an impulse hot in her 
soul to cry out at them: “Why, then, was I deserted? 
Why, then, was I left alone? Why, then, did you not 
rise up and make the thing that happened to me impossi¬ 
ble as you have made it impossible for the work of the 
Morelands upon their fellow men to continue?” 

The thing that dazed her, that kept sleep from her eyes, 
the knowledge of how weary she was from her brain, and 
sent her wandering from one room to another all through 
the night, and at the break of day, to the little gold bird 
that still sang in her window, to the garden, and from the 
garden to the pigeons, and from the pigeons to the calves, 
and back again to the cases of her father’s books and to 
the pictured faces of Mahlon and Elizabeth—the one 
thing that she found predominant out of the whole 
matter, the one thing that in the end mounted above 


THE WHITE FLAG 


462 

everything else, was the fact that Jason had doubted 
her, that because he doubted her, he had made another 
woman his wife, the mother of the child that should 
have been hers. 

All the morning Mahala struggled to understand him. 
She tried to tell her heart that it was because of the scorch¬ 
ing humiliations he had endured in his youth, the worst of 
which she now understood she had never realized. It was 
the taunts that had been flung at him, the loneliness of his 
unloved childhood, that had influenced him in his decision 
not to make any woman concerning whom there was a 
shadow of doubt, the mother of his child. It was not in 
the power of a woman like Mahala to gauge the depth of 
physical passion, to understand the force that drove Jason, 
in addition to the knowledge that he had found the money 
where he supposed she had, in some way, managed to have 
it placed. 

Throughout the day, Mahala found her heart crying out 
achingly and unceasingly over Jason’s lack of confidence 
in her. She had learned that she could spare the rest of 
the world. They might think what they pleased. It was 
Jason alone who mattered. In living over the previous 
day in her tortured wanderings about the house, through 
the orchard, in the dead stillness that always precedes a 
summer storm, she found herself speaking aloud at 
times. She cried to the walls of her room: “Oh, Jason, 

I would not have doubted you, if I had seen you take the 
money myself!” 

To the trees of the old orchard she stretched out her 


BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 463 

arms. She said to them: “If it had been Jason, Ed have 
known that there had to be some explanation. Ed have 
felt that anything else might have happened except that he 
could have been guilty. ,, 

Across the road and down a few rods farther, Jason 
had reached his home and Ellen in a condition that 
alarmed her. He had tried to tell her what had happened. 
He had tried to explain to her, but she had felt that he 
was speaking as if there were a weight upon his heart 
and brain that was almost more than he could endure. 
She had felt that he scarcely realized what he was saying 
to her. She had tried to feed him; she had wept over him; 
she had rejoiced with him that there could be no stain 
upon his name and upon his birthright, and through it all 
she had seen that he did not hear her, that he did not care 
for anything she might say or anything she might do. 
Then she watched him stagger across the road and start 
toward Mahala’s house. 

She stood awhile meditating. She decided that prob¬ 
ably there were things that she might do. She ought to 
go herself and prepare some food. She might give Mahala 
the comfort of playing with the baby while she worked. 
She was half in doubt as to whether she should go, and yet 
she could think of many reasonable excuses. She realized 
that it was on slow feet that she walked down the road 
carrying the baby that every day was growing a heavier 
burden for her slight young shoulders. She was thinking 
a queer thing as she went along. He was heavier to carry 
when he was asleep than when he was awake. Asleep, 


464 THE WHITE FLAG 

he lay a dead weight on her arms; awake he clung around 
her neck, he scattered his weight over her chest and shoul¬ 
ders. She was surprised that she had thought this out 
for herself. 

As she reached the gate, she was saying to herself: “He’s 
a dead weight asleep. He’s not near so heavy when he’s 
awake!” 

Seeing that the front door was closed, she followed the 
narrow path of hard-beaten earth running around the 
house. As she came to the big clump of lilacs at the cor¬ 
ner, she heard Mahala’s voice cry, “Jason!” 

Through the lilac bushes she saw that Jason had fallen’ 
at Mahala’s back door. He was lying face down upon 
the ground, either exhausted or unconscious. She stood 
one instant in paralysed apprehension. 1 he thing that 
kept her from movement was the look that was upon 
Mahala s face as she crossed the back porch and went to 
him. Ellen saw that Mahala s skirts were drawn back 
and there was a look of scorn and repulsion on her face. 
It was quite out of the girl’s power to move. She merely 
stood and stared at them. As she watched, she saw a 
slow change pass over Mahala. She saw her clenched 
hands relax; she saw her face soften and break up; she saw 
a quiver come to her lips and big tears squeeze from her 
eyes; she saw her fall on her knees beside Jason, and with 
unsuspected strength, lift and turn his body. She saw 
Mahala take Jason’s head on her lap and lean over him; 
she saw her hands slip under his vest and down to the 
region of his heart. She caught the torn note of agony in 



BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 465 

Mahala’s voice as she cried to him: “Jason, have the 
Morelands killed you, too?” 

Then Ellen saw Mahala lose her self-control. She stood 
watching her as she took Jason’s head in her arms and 
kissed him from brow to lips. 

“Jason! Oh, Jason! I understand you now! I know 
that you’ve always loved me. But you couldn’t, you 
simply couldn’t, make me the mother of your child when 
you thought it would be born through me to the suffering 
you have known. Oh, Jason, it wasn’t fair of you! Your 
love always has been mine! Your very body is mine! 
Your child should have been mine!” 

As Mahala talked she smoothed his hair, she beat 
his hands, she tried with her fingers to make his 
eyes open. Ellen stood and watched. When Jason 
came to his senses and realized where he was, she 
saw him look up at Mahala, and then she saw him cover 
his face with his hands. She watched with a kind of dumb 
indifference while his body was tom and racked with the 
deep sobbing that seemed to rend him through and 
through. 

She saw Mahala kneeling before him, looking at him. 
She heard her saying to him: “I understand now, Jason. 
I understand you now!” 

She watched him struggle to a rising posture. She 
saw him reach out his hands and help Mahala to her feet. 
She heard a voice that she did not know crying: “Great 
God! What have I done? If I had not been a common 
thing, a vile thing, myself, I might have known!” 


THE WHITE FLAG 


466 

Then Mahala laid her hands on his arm. She looked up 
at him and said quietly: “Square your shoulders, Jason. 
You’ve got to adjust them to the burden they must carry 
for the rest of your life. We both know now, but we must 
finish our lives as if we didn’t.” 

Then Ellen saw Jason lean forward. She saw his strong 
hands reach out. She heard him cry: “Mahala, you 
know, you always have known, how I love you. If there 
had been in me the manhood to wait for this hour, would 
you have been mine?” 

She watched Mahala lay both her hands in his. She 
saw her look at Jason for a long time. She saw the smile 
of ecstasy that broke over her face. She heard a sweetness 
she never before had heard in the tones of a human voice 
as Mahala said: “Why, Jason, when I think it all out, I 
can t remember the time when my heart was not fighting 
your battles for you—when I didn’t love you.” 

Standing there, Ellen saw Jason gather Mahala in his 
arms, lift her clear of the ground, and kiss her face, her 
hair, her shoulders, even, in a passion of utter despair. 

Then Ellen came in for her share of the Moreland trag¬ 
edy. She turned softly. Lightly she picked her steps 
around the house. She flashed through the gate; with 
flying feet she ran back down the road to her home. She 
had forgotten how heavy the baby was. There seemed 
to be wings on her feet. When she reached home, she 
laid him in his cradle because that was the thing she was 
accustomed to doing when he was asleep. Then she 
dropped on her knees beside him and caught his little 


BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 467 

hands, and without caring whether she awoke him or not, 
she laid them against her face, on her throat, on her eyes, 
on her hair. At last she found her voice. 

She told him: “Your father does not love me. He loves 
Mahala. He always has loved her. He is really hers and 
you should be hers. Oh, Baby, tell me what I must do!” 

She was kneeling there in a sort of dull lethargy when 
Jason staggered back home, bowed by the weight of the 
crucifying revelation that Mahala always had loved him; 
that he had sacrificed her love; that he had thrown away 
the beauty of her soul and her body through his doubt 
of her. 

As he stepped inside his door and saw Ellen kneeling 
beside the cradle, her unheeding head being rumpled and 
battered by the uncertain hands of the baby, he wondered 
for a moment. Then he stepped over to her and lifted her 
to her feet, and then he saw her distorted, pain-tortured 
face, and there he learned, that in some way, she knew. 
There was only one way in which she could know. Even 
then he revealed an inherent fineness. He made no 
accusation. 

He said to her gently: “You felt that you would be 
needed? You followed me?” 

Ellen assented. Then he was speaking again. 

“You saw us? You heard what we said? ” 

She bowed her head in acquiescence. 

Jason released her and dropped into the nearest chair, 
and Ellen sank down again beside the cradle and buried 
her face in the baby’s clothing. Finally, Jason could en- 


THE WHITE FLAG 


468 

dure no more. He went over to Ellen and lifted her up; 
he helped her to a chair. 

With a halting voice and stricken eyes of misery she said 
to him: “Because you found that pocket book when you 
were fixing up the house, you thought that in some way 
she’d had it put there?” 

Jason nodded. 

In the passion of her agony, she cried at him: “How 
could you? Any one so delicate, so beautiful—why, I 
have always known she never could have done it! I 
couldn’t have loved her if I had thought her a common 
thief.” 

Before the storm of her wrath Jason stood bowed and 
helpless. She seemed a long way from him, and yet he 
could hear her voice crying at him: “You loved her. You 
would work for her, you would take care of her, but you 
had not the manhood to wait for her hour of vindication!” 

Then Jason spoke: “When I found the money hidden 
in her house, I thought there never could be such a thing 
as vindication. With my own hands I hid it where it 
never would have been discovered, waiting for the hour 
when she should come to me and tell me herself that she 
had taken it.” 

Ellen cried to him: “And now, what are you going to 
do?” 

He looked at her helplessly. The finger she was point¬ 
ing toward the cradle was shaking but her voice was clear: 

You are giving her your love. You have given me your 
child. What are you going to do?” 


BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 


469 

So these two souls battled in agony during an evening 
of that tense stillness which almost always presages heavy 
storm in the Central States. 1 he elements outside seemed 
in keeping with the inside strain when a sudden wind sprang 
up and boiling yellow clouds were driven before it, and 
heavy black ones took their place. In a short time their 
world was enveloped in thick darkness, broken by the 
flash of lightning, the jarring of thunder and dangerous 
winds. 

Worn out at last with nerve strain, Ellen stood up. 
She faced Jason, crying: “You haven’t been fair. You 
had no right to make me the mother of your child when 
you knew in your heart that you didn’t love me. It isn’t 
truly mine. Martin Moreland robbed Mahala of her 
people, her home, her wealth. He would have taken her 
honour if he could. And how much better are you? You 
have robbed her heart of the love of a lifetime. I heard 
her say it. And, at the same time, you robbed her of 
motherhood. Your child belongs to her, not to me! You 
may take it to her!” 

Jason had endured nerve strain almost to the limit. He 
was at that dumb place where the brain ceases to function 
for itself. He realized that he might have had Mahala 
in his home and in his arms if he had kept firm rein on 
his physical nature and had had Ellen’s faith in her. The 
foundations of his life had been shaken. It seemed to him 
that nothing further could happen. He was past thinking 
clearly for himself. The first thought that came to his 
muddled brain was one of protest. 


470 


THE WHITE FLAG 


“No, Ellen, no !” he said. “That can’t be done! You’re 
insane to think of it!” 

Nerve strain works one way with some people; it works 
differently with others. First Ellen had cried until she 
was exhausted. Then she had argued until she could think 
no further. When she reached her decision, at that time 
she had meant what she said. She proved the courage of 
her convictions by lifting the baby from its cradle, wrap¬ 
ping the blanket around it, and thrusting it into Jason’s 
arms. 

She opened the door, and with apparent calmness and 
deliberation, she said to him: “I have told you until 
I’m tired. That child does not belong to me. You may 
take it to its real mother.” 

Jason took the baby because he did not know what else 
to do. But he stood shaking his head. 

“You can’t do this, Ellen,” he said to her pleadingly. 
“For God’s sake, try to understand that you can’t give 
away your baby!” 

Ellen caught up the words. “Give away my baby?” 
she repeated after him. “ It is not I who give it away. It 
is you. You gave it to me when it belonged to Mahala. 
I tell you to take it to her!” 

She pushed him into the night and closed the door be¬ 
hind him, regardless of the storm into which she was 
thrusting him. Then Jason’s soul knew fear. He was 
worn to the marrow with as keen suffering as any man can 
experience. Every nerve in his body was strained to the 
breaking point and a ghastly nausea possessed him inside. 


BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 


47 i 

There was only one rational thought in his head. He must 
get the baby out of that storm. He must do what he 
had been told. 

He was reeling like an intoxicated man as he staggered 
blindly down the road through the wildly gathering storm 
which broke in a torrent as he reached Mahala’s door. He 
realized that he might have been unable to find her door if 
her house had not been filled with light. Evidently, she 
was nervous and afraid. He could see light in every room 
of the house, and as he stumbled toward it, he could see 
Mahala’s figure passing from room to room, and he knew 
that she was alone and that she was afraid. 

There was in his heart a fear that his knock might 
frighten her further, so he called at the same time. He 
heard her footsteps flying across the floor, and she swung 
the door wide. He stepped through it, already drenched, 
with the face and eyes of a stranger, huddling the baby 
against his breast. 

As Mahala closed the door, she stepped back to the 
centre of the room. Jason held out the bundle to her. 
He was past the point of trying to screen her. He was 
past anything except a parrot-like utterance of what he 
had been told. 

With no preliminaries, he said to Mahala: “Ellen saw 
us this afternoon. She won’t have her baby any longer, 
because she knows now that I never really loved her. 
She made me bring it to you. She says, because I love 
you, my child is yours.” 

Mahala held out her palms before her as if to keep back 


472 THE WHITE FLAG 

an enemy. Every trace of colour faded from her face. 
Her eyes stretched their widest in amazement. She had 
been trying to think, trying to plan, trying to reason, all 
the afternoon, and the conclusion she had reached was, 
that to the end of their days, she and Jason must travel 
different roads, each carrying a burden upon their tortured 
shoulders, the weight of which they must learn to endure. 
But here was the climax. This was the worst of all. They 
might not even be permitted to suffer together. All after¬ 
noon she had been thinking: “Ellen has had nothing to 
do with this. She is perfectly innocent. She must never 
know.” 

And now, smashing as the crash of the lightning outside, 
she was facing the terrible knowledge that Ellen did 
know, and that she had practically lost her reason through 
that knowledge. Her heart was primitive like the heart 
of every other woman. She had seen her man, she had 
loved him, she had taken his head on her breast, she had 
given him all she had to give. And through youth and 
inexperience, through willingness to believe, she had be¬ 
lieved that she was having all that he had to give in return. 
Now she knew that she had had nothing. She had merely 
been an instrument. This knowledge had driven her to 
frenzy. 

And this was the thing that Mahala now had to face. 
Through the months of torture that she had experienced, 
striking her first in the heart, then in the brain, and then 
physically, she had learned what this must mean to Ellen. 

She could only cry: “Impossible! Quite impossible!” 


BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 


473 

Jason advanced toward her, holding out the baby. It 
had awakened with the flashes of lightning and the jarring 
of the thunder. Throwing up its little arms, it pushed 
the blanket back, revealing its face, the soft, curling brown 
hair, the pink cheeks, the delicately veined temples. The 
little fellow knew Mahala. She was his beloved play¬ 
mate. He reached his hands toward her, crowing and 
laughing and begging to be taken for one of the romps 
he was accustomed to indulging in with her. He liked 
spatting her cheeks with his hands. He liked to tousle 
her hair. He liked her kisses on his hands and his feet 
and the back of his neck and all over his little head. 

Mahala retreated until she was pressed flat against the 
W’all. Even her hands, as they stretched out at her sides, 
wxre hard pressed, palm to the wall, behind her. She 
could go no farther. She was a tortured thing brought to 
bay. Jason advanced. 

“You’ve got to take him,” he said in a voice torn with 
suffering. “You’ve got to take him!” 

Then Mahala began to cry* She looked at Jason im¬ 
ploringly. 

“What does my heart know of the heart of a child beat¬ 
ing beneath it?” she said to him. “How are my dry 
breasts to furnish life for another woman’s baby?” 

Jason still pressed the child toward her. Mahala be¬ 
came primitive. The strength of temper that had always 
characterized her swept through her. She lifted her head 
shamelessly. She used the lids of her eyes to squeeze the 
tears from them. Her voice was stern and relentless as 


474 


THE WHITE FLAG 


she said to Jason: “You big fool! Ellen can’t give away 
her baby. Haven’t you got the sense to see it? It’s bone 
of her bone and flesh of'her flesh. Take it back to her 
and make her listen to reason! Make her see that a real 
woman couldn’t possibly give up her baby. You would 
drive her as insane as your father did Rebecca.” 

“You’re right,” said Jason. 

He wrapped the blanket around the child, turned its 
face to his breast, and started toward the door. As he 
opened it, there w 7 as a horrible crash. He was blinded 
with running streaks of lightning till he staggered back. 
There was the ripping sound of a bolt that had struck 
something solid so close that it rocked the house. He 
turned appealingly to Mahala. She darted past him and 
pushed shut the door. 

“Wait!” she said. “Wait till I get the lantern, I’ll 
go to Ellen with you. I can make her understand better 
than you can.” 

Jason looked down at the small bundle struggling in his 
arms. “I ought not take the boy out in this,” he said. 
“We might be struck.” 

Mahala shook her head. “Ellen can’t be left alone. 
We’ve got to go. Some terrible thing will happen.” 

Mahala hurried to the kitchen to find and light the 
lantern. For one second she stood at the window, her 
hands cupped around her face, trying to peer through the 
darkness, to see if the lights were burning in Jason’s house. 
She would not have been surprised to see great tongues 
of flame leaping from it, but the rain was beating in sheets 


BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 


475 


against the window, small branches and wet leaves were 
plastered on it and a black bird, blown from its shelter 
among the bushes, struck the glass and slid down, white 
lights streaming from its green eyes, its wings outspread, 
its breast bleeding. 

As the door closed behind Jason, Ellen had turned and 
fallen across the empty cradle. As she raised herself, her 
hands struck the warm sheets and the little pillow where 
the baby’s head had lain. On her knees staring into it, 
there came the first realization of what she had done. 
She had sent her baby to be mothered by another woman. 
Dazed at the tragedy that had befallen her, she caught up 
the little pillow and held it warm against her face and then 
her empty arms folded around it. 

Suddenly she was on her feet. She threw the pillow 
back into the cradle and sprang to the door. She opened 
it wide and screamed into the night: “Jason! Jason! 
Bring back my baby!” 

She bent her head and tried to hear his voice in answer. 
But the wind howled past her. Flying leaves and 
branches and a dust storm from the road almost blinded 
her as she tried to raise her voice, to scream with all her 
might: “Jason! Jason!” 

She realized that she could not make him hear her above 
the fury of the storm. She realized that she had only a 
minute. The rain would come in torrents very soon. 
With her arms extended before her to protect her face and 
breast, she rushed into the night. She found the gate 
and started down the road. With every flare of lightning 


THE WHITE FLAG 


476 

she could see a few yards in advance of her. Until the 
next flare, she was in darkness. The wind blew her wide 
skirts so tightly around her that she could scarcely step. 
She realized that she could not have found her way had it 
not been for the light in Mahala's house. That she could 
see, and she tried to go straight toward it. The difficulty 
in running told her that she had lost the road, but so long 
as she could see the light, she knew that she must reach 
the house. Once she had a fight to extricate herself from 
a thicket of bushes and then she ran into a big tree, and 
the tree told her where she was. She was very near the 
house now. This was a friendly tree in whose shelter she 
liked to walk whenever she went to Mahala’s house. She 
had stopped beneath it to pick up shining acorns for the 
baby to play with. She had seen the squirrels racing up 
and down it. She had seen great, horned owls spread 
their wings and sail from their day-time shelter among its 
heavy, gnarled branches. It was almost like meeting a 
friend in a time of extremity. 

She threw her arms around it and laid her face against it 
and waited for the next flare of lightning to show her how 
to find the road again, but following that flash there came 
a dreadful bolt that struck the oak tree, rending it from top 
to base. 

Through the most terrific storm she ever had experi¬ 
enced, holding the lantern high above her, Mahala stum¬ 
bled down the foot path beside the fence trying to light the 
way for Jason who kept as close behind her as he could with 
the baby's face buried in his breast. Trying to see her 


BEHIND THE LILAC WALL 477 

way ahead of her, Mahala stumbled over the body of 
Ellen lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the oak tree. 
The flickering glare of the rain-dripping lantern showed her 
still face and the splintered tree beside her. 

Wordless, Mahala set down the lantern and held out 
her arms for the child. Jason gave the baby to her and 
lifted Ellen. Mahala picked up the lantern, and they 
carried Ellen home and laid her on her bed. The baby 
had fallen asleep and they put him in his cradle and cov¬ 
ered him. Then they knelt, one on each side of Ellen, and 
sobbed out the pain, the grief, and the torture that had torn 
their hearts to the limit of endurance. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


The Flag on Its Journey 

S TUMBLINGLY Marcia made her way from the 
alley, and finding the nearest livery stable, she had 
some difficulty in persuading a man to drive her 
to BlufFport. During that ride she realized only one 
thing. The hand of God had intervened and she was for¬ 
ever freed from the power of either of the Morelands. 
Never again need she fear the Martin Moreland whom she 
had last seen clutching the white flag and babbling over 
Rebecca’s speech. Never again need she fear the sardonic 
smile, the merciless cruelty of the beautiful boy, who, 
with the utmost politeness, had taken the revolver from 
her shaking hands with a deep bow and a gay, “Permit 
me,” and with no instant of hesitation had discharged it 
into his own breast. He must have known that no escape 
was left him and that the w'rath of Jason would be as inex¬ 
orable as Fate itself. He had preferred escaping all of 
them in his own way. Affiominable as he had been, Mar¬ 
cia was almost stunned at herself as she rode through the 
night thinking things over, to find that she had been 
unable, either when she stood before him alone, or as 
she watched from the closet during the appearance of 
Jason and Mahala, to keep from admiring Junior. She 

478 


479 


THE FLAG ON ITS JOURNEY 

found herself saying to the darkness: “What a won¬ 
derful man he might have been! How lovable, how 
brave!” 

It comforted her heart as they came down the main 
street of Bluffport, to see a light in the back of the Bodkin 
Millinery, to know that there was food and a warm wel¬ 
come awaiting her. In a few minutes more she was 
sobbing in utter abandonment on the narrow breast of 
Nancy. After she had regained her composure and Nancy 
had done everything to comfort and to console her, they 
sat until almost daybreak talking things over. 

When she had rehearsed every detail of the day, Marcia 
lifted her head: “I think,” she said, “that I am as safe at 
last as I ever can be. Jason will never do anything to 
harm me. All the mentality Martin Moreland has left 
will be occupied from now on with fulfilling the curse set 
upon him by Rebecca. I truly believe that I have nothing 
further to fear.” 

Nancy sat thinking for a long time. Then she looked 
at Marcia and said softly: “And now, Marcia, will you 
listen to the minister?” 

Marcia sat a long time in deep thought, and then she 
said quietly: “To have the love of a good man, to have the 
home and the security that he would give me if he did not 
know, might be a wonderful thing. But I could not 
marry him without telling him, because, so surely as I did 
not, some way, some of my graves would open and the 
dead would confront me; and there is the child that I 
would not be considered suitable to mother. The only 


THE WHITE FLAG 


480 

way I can see out of it is for you and me to go on together 
making the best that we can of life.” 

It hurt Nancy Bodkin sorely to see Marcia suffer. She 
had a pang, too, for the minister, but deep in her heart she 
was ashamed of herself for the little throb of rejoicing that 
sprang up at Marcia’s words. She might dismiss her re¬ 
motest fear. Nothing ever could sever their partnership 
or spoil their friendship; until one or the other of them 
lay down in the final sleep, the Bodkin Millinery would 
go on doing business and each of the partners would 
give to the other the undivided devotion of a sincere 
heart. 

When another winter had run its course, under the old 
apple trees of May, Jason sat on a bench in the orchard 
with young Jason on his lap. Kneeling in front of them, 
Mahala was playing a game almost as old as babies. 
Holding up one pink, bare toe for every line, she chanted: 

‘‘This is a fat king, out for a ride, 

This is a fair queen, close by his side. 

This a tall soldier on guard with his gun; 

This a fine lady who walks in the sun. 

This is a baby curled up in his bed, 

Here go all of them over your head!” 

Jason and Mahala laughed together with gleeful shouts 
from the baby. 

As she lifted her head to push back her hair, Mahala 
glanced down the road and a flicker of white slowly coming 
beside the river caught her attention. She said nothing, 


THE FLAG ON ITS JOURNEY 481 

out she kept watching, and after a time she recognized a 
tottering figure, bowed and stumbling along slowly. 

The penetrant sun of spring was beating mercilessly 
upon Martin Moreland’s old white head. When Jason 
realized who the traveller was, he drew back repulsed, but 
Mahala arose, and as Martin Moreland came past the 
odorous lilacs and across the grass toward them, she 
motioned him to a seat. He refused to be seated, but he 
drew himself together the best he could and made her a 
courtly bow. 

In a wavering voice he said to her: “Beautiful little 
lady, you seem strangely familiar to me, yet I do not recall 
your name.” 

Fearing that her name might awaken unpleasant mem¬ 
ories that would produce such an attack as in her child¬ 
hood she had seen Rebecca suffer from, Mahala merely 
smiled at him and said: “Names do not matter. Was 
there something you wanted?” 

Martin Moreland tried to stand straight. He struggled 
till the pain of the effort to think was visible on his face; 
but at last he gave up. 

“There was a reason for my coming,” he said, “but I 
regret to say that I cannot at the present minute recall it.” 

In a low voice at her side Jason said to Mahala: “Send 
him away. I can’t endure the sight of him.” 

Mahala lifted her hand to silence Jason. Patiently she 
said to the old man: “Maybe I can help you to remember 
what it is that you have forgotten. Did you want to tell 
me something, or was it Jason?” 


THE WHITE FLAG 


482 

At that name Martin Moreland lifted his head. A flash 
of memory came back to him. 

“I want Jason,” he said. “I wanted my son, Jason. 
He is the only friend that I have left in all the world. I 
am old, I am tired, I am tortured, I lack food. I have 
come to beg of him only a crust of bread.” 

Mahala went into the house. She brought food and 
drink. She helped Martin Moreland to seat himself 
securely upon the chair she brought. She tried to relieve 
him of the white flag, but he would not allow it to be taken 
from his fingers. With one hand he clutched it tightly. 
With the other he took the glass of milk Mahala offered 
him, but he was shaking so that he could only lift it to his 
lips with her help. The food he did not touch at all. 

He rested a few minutes and then he arose and extended 
the white flag. He lifted his face to the skies and with 
more strength and sureness in his voice, he cried: ‘‘Be¬ 
hold the emblem of purity. Clean hearts may pass under 
with God’s blessing. Come, ye workers of darkness, wash 
your hearts clean by passing under the white flag!” 

Mahala gently turned Martin Moreland’s face toward 
the road again. She led him to the gate and pointed in 
the direction of Ashwater. “I think,” she said, “that 
there are a number of sinful people coming along the high¬ 
way. No doubt many of them will be glad to pass under 
your flag.” 

“Thank you, little lady,” said Martin Moreland. 
“Thank you. Now that you suggest it, I believe that 
is the case. I will go forward in my work of upholding 


THE FLAG ON ITS JOURNEY 483 

the white emblem of purity. I wish you a very happy 
good day!” 

Mahala went back and once more dropped on her knees 
beside Jason. She put one arm around him and the other 
around the baby, and buried a face of compassion against 
the hearts of both of them. Until it faded from sight, 
they watched the bowed, lean figure trudging the River 
Road, the flag flashing white in the sunlight. 


THE END 




































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